Champion

I'm one of those people who can eat the same thing for days, weeks, even months and not complain. Ever since I was youngster, I'd get hooked on something, forget any other food existed and emerge sometime later sick of the item and ready for the next obsession. There's been stints of scrambled eggs, tacos, spaghetti, grilled cheese sandwiches, quesadillas, ramen noodles and cheesesticks from Pizza Hut (had those every day for lunch for the last two years of high school). One binge that I've never grown tired of is Wheaties, the Breakfast of Champions. There is just something about those little flakes of wheat that I just cannot get enough of. Maybe it's the promise of becoming a champion or maybe it's how delicious they are with the perfect amount of milk (I know exactly how much milk is needed. If I get too much milk, I add more Wheaties till the milk to cereal ratio is perfect.). My favorite part of a box of Wheaties is the crumbs at the bottom. I tell myself it is going to be a good day when it is the last-of-a-box-of-Wheaties day. My dad has been known to save the crumbs of his boxes for me if he knows I am returning home soon. In my younger and more immature years, I would get a bit upset if he would eat or dare throw out the crumbs. He's been trained now.

All through grade school, it wasn't uncommon for me to go through a box of Wheaties a day. Cereal wasn't just for breakfast, Wheaties were also the lunch and dinner of champions, and maybe even the snack of champions, too. I had grown accustomed to the fact that people were to receive three meals a day, and because I was a stickler for details, I made sure I got my three meals each and every day. I considered it a form of child abuse if my parents tried to pull a fast one on me and let me skip a meal. On occasion, usually on a weekend, we might have a late breakfast which would throw off the whole 3-meal schedule. With bedtime fast approaching, I would recall my missing meal and call my parents out on the injustice. Out would come the iconic orange box, a bowl, spoon and milk. I'd go to sleep with a smile on my face, my belly full of Wheaties knowing the child abusers had once again not won.

Just as my dad has been trained to not eat the last of the box, my mom has also been trained to always have a few boxes waiting for me in the pantry for my visits. During my semesters in London and Greece, she would send care packages with a box or two. It was torture trying to make those boxes last longer than a day - a display of self-control at its finest.

It may not be a common fixation, and I may not be a 'real' champion, but no matter where I am when I pull that box off the shelf with a bowl and spoon in the other hand, I feel at home.