I still remember when Mikey would eat anything
Oats sprinkled with almonds, served cold. That’s what I have most mornings. That’s my ‘cereal’. I’m putting it in tongs because gastronomes would call that a poor bowl of porridge (cold?!). But my mouth has many happy memories of thoroughly manufactured cereal. Given free rein it could easily demand a heady mix of crunchy fun shapes three meals a day, perhaps with the occasional vegetable thrown in to cleanse the palate. The only reason I don’t overdose on Frosted Mini-Wheats (an old favourite; note the optimistic built-in portion control), despite being an adult and legally allowed to buy and eat as much sugar coated grain as I want, is because some small sane part of me realises that’s not very good eatin’. Also those mini bundles of joy contain gelatin, which sucks for a vegetarian.
Cereal Killer Cafe [at least two of those words should probably be transposed] in London made a big splash in the press when they opened their boxes for business earlier this month. Some complained about the prices, apparently innocent of what a teabag in hot water goes for. I say, good for these guys. They’re providing a service for people who want a little colour in their milk.
Who ordered the Frankenberry slurry