If there was one thing that epitomized elevated economic status in my childish eyes, it was the presence, in a house, of breakfast cereal. I dreamed of a life where each morning, I would nonchalantly open the cabinet doors and carelessly grab a box of something crunchy, sugary, and colorful, perhaps with tiny marshmallow stars scattered throughout. In my fantasy, I would pour the cereal into a bowl, add milk, and then sit down to be entertained by the back of the cereal box. I would read the jokes, do the finding puzzles, and no siblings would grab the box away just as I was completing the word games. And if perchance, this box advertised a toy inside, the prize would still be there, even when the volume of cereal dipped low enough to peer into the bottom of the box. No savages would have ripped open the box top, while the grocery bags were still standing on the counter to be unpacked, poured the cereal all out into a large Tupperware, and fished out the plastic encased toy.

My early years were filled with sweet yearnings for those delectable puffed and coated carbs found in the boxes I saw advertised during the Saturday morning cartoons. I knew about those advertisements despite growing up without television. On a rare Saturday morning, you might have spied my little six-year-old braids in the bushes outside the neighbors' living room window. I was trying to catch a glimpse of Bullwinkle or the Road Runner or those commercials for cold cereal where the beautiful, indulged children played with glossy, new toys and ate Lucky Charms to their hearts' content.

Ours was a home of more modest means, no TV, and no sugary cereals. Foremost, there were economic reasons: it would take a lot of boxes of cereal to fill up seven children. Cooked oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins and sliced bananas was a much cheaper alternative. But beyond the cost, my Mom had other reasons to run a nearly cereal-less household: most cereals were not healthy. My Mom was "crunchy" before it was popular. She read Prevention magazine religiously and knew all the evils of food additives, the dangers of excessive sugars, and the merits of her children swallowing daily desiccated liver tablets. (I managed to save most of mine to fortify the family cat. I could even get that cat to lie back in the black recliner to be my pretend dental patient, by using those smelly, brown pills as a bribe!) In other homes, on wintry Ohio mornings, little children warmed their hands around cups of hot chocolate with small marshmallows floating on top. Our special drink was a cocktail prepared in a tall glass of hot water, with a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar and a teaspoon of raw honey. We would vigorously stir the drink with a tall spoon until a swirling cyclone formed in the center. I actually like the warm, acidic beverage, but missed the luxury of those mini marshmallows.

We used whole wheat flour to make our bread, we bought raw honey from a bee keeper in 5 gallon tins, we raised our own vegetables, and had nuts and fresh fruit for snacks. I remember once, my brother, Lowell and I discovered a package of store bought, processed hotdogs in the freezer. We were so excited that we couldn't wait for them to be cooked; we gnawed on raw, frozen, hotdogs! And there was the blackstrap molasses that we bought by the gallon from the Hartville Feed Mill. I think perhaps they used it in cattle feed, or it was a byproduct of something, but we Hershberger kids ate a spoonful a day because it was rich in iron, vitamin B6, and trace minerals. 

If there ever was a box of cereal on the shelf between the unprocessed oats and the blackstrap molasses, you could bet a lot of money that it wasn't Cap'n Crunch! It was most assuredly Shredded Wheat; not the little frosted, bite-sized pillows, but rather, the large, brillo pads of unsweetened wheat. It was reserved for Sunday breakfast, when we were short on time, with getting all of us dressed for church and only one bathroom. Saturday evening was bath time, so that you were clean (at least outwardly) for Sunday School. Not to say that Mom didn't occasionally spit into a Kleenex and scour someone's ears out on the Sunday morning ride to the service. Sometimes Mom would go a little "cray cray" on Saturday night and grant her young pajama-clad children permission to eat one preemptive bowl of shredded wheat as a bedtime snack. 

Now here is the way to prepare a proper vessel of shredded wheat (from an Expert, if I may be so presumptuous): hold the large, crunchy pillows of grain and pull them apart gently, using both hands. The key is not to just smash them up, because then you end up with fine, tiny pieces of toasted wheat, and we all know that texture is taste's twin. Ideally you want to pull the fibers apart in long strands, with a bit of edge seam on each one, for perfect crunch in each bite. You let these fall into your bowl and fill to the brim with milk. As a child, I learned about this filling-to-the-brim technique from my older siblings; it practically guaranteed a second helping, for though the rule was only one bowl of cereal, who could waste all that milk?! And of course, the milk came from a local farmer. We would take glass gallon jars to the farm to be filled with rich, full cream, milk (this was before cows were smart enough to produce skim milk). If you ever find yourself at a farm buying milk in a glass jar, please double check that the cap gets screwed on properly. A spilled gallon of milk on a car floor mat is a sure deterrent to road trips for many months, especially in hot weather.

By default, I learned to love Shredded Wheat. If there had been other, more desirable choices, I certainly would not have been scrunching brillo pads into my bowl. I remember our family visiting Uncle Pete and Aunt Pauline's home in South Carolina. For breakfast, there was the luxury of choices of cereal. I had fruit loops and through out the meal, I made steady eye contact with the Toucan on the box. When the adults left the room, I grabbed the box and filled my bowl again. And then I managed to get a number of handfuls out to snack on before the table was cleared. I'm sure that I downed half of that box. Ahhhhh, it was a sweet vacation!

My love affair with cold cereal has continued into adulthood. Most days it is my breakfast of choice. I have perfected the art of cereal mixing. You see, it is really all about texture. You start with a healthy base cereal, like Mini Shredded Wheat (can't imagine why I love it!), or Raisin Bran, or Multigrain Cheerios. And then you sprinkle something special on top like gourmet Granola, or Corn Pops, or Cracklin' Oat Bran, and then you add the milk. Once you try mixing, you will never eat a plain bowl of cereal again. It's like a Cirque du Soleil show in your mouth. Speaking of texture, the clock starts ticking when you tip the milk carton and introduce the grains to the liquid. All distractions must be sidelined to consume that breakfast at its peak: if the phone rings, if the dog pees, if a squirrel falls into your swimming pool, do not be distracted! Eat the cereal first! Soggy cereal is not for the faint of heart. I once heard of a man who used leftover popcorn as a substitute for the boxed stuff in his bowl of milk; I have a strong stomach, but that makes me nauseous.

From the little girl who dreamed of someday opening her own pantry and finding boxes of cereal, all in a row, it would appear that I've journeyed far in the world. Some years ago, Larry and I were celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary in Florence, Italy. We stayed at Villa San Michele, a 15th century monastery that has been turned into a beautiful hotel, with breathtaking vistas of romantic Fiesole. The rooms are built into the hillside, and grounds are a well-tended garden with fire red geraniums and vining pergolas surprising you as you round a corner. In addition to the surroundings, the breakfast buffet was opulent, with foods arranged by categories in several rooms of the old monastery. In true European style, there were trays of cheeses and beautiful Italian cured meats, along with artisan breads and homemade pastries. There was fruit and thick yogurt with handcrafted preserves, coffees, and fresh squeezed juices and a chef to prepare eggs to your taste. And of course, I found the cold cereal. There was gorgeous tureen of nut and fruit studded granola, all crunchy and textured. Soon I was gnashing away, feeling pampered in this magnificent dining room. I imagined the sous chef, hand preparing the granola for that day, baking it in small batches. I couldn't help myself; I motioned the waiter over and, raving about the granola, asked if they would share the recipe. He leaned down and said in his lovely, Italian accent, "It is Kelloggs". Maybe I haven't come so far after all.