Porridge.

HEllo!


My story was originally going to be longer than it will be, but oh my goodness look at the time! I need to get some sleep so that I will have enough energy to drag my poor dying body out of it's haven of warmth, comfort, and relaxation--the bed. FOR GREEK. Argh. TOo earlllly.


Anyways. Yesterday, my parents were out in the back yard along with my siblings, repaving the lovely stones in our, erm, yard's entrance path-thing. My mom told me to make some porridge (like, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, eh?). I said, obviously, yes. I mean, honestly, manual labor vs. cooking? DUR!


Five minutes after she had left, and I had dug out the bag of porridge flakes/grains/things/dry-stuff/porridge-stuff, I clutched it to me, and realized something.


I didn't know how the heck you make porridge.


Please don't think I'm lacking in necessary life skills. Because, first of all, making porridge is not a necessary life skill. Second of all, I can cook. Sort of. Like, I won't starve if you give me groceries, pots, seasonings, and a stove/oven/microwave to work with (hem, which....I mean, you could always just supply me with the monetary means to get those things...). I'm good a baking. My cakes are lovely.


Back to the story. So I've got a bag of raw (that's what you call it, eh? or is the term 'uncooked'?) porridge in my hands. I went out and asked my mom a...rather humiliating question. "Mom? How do you, er, make porridge, exactly?" She sort of disbelievingly and sarcastically replies, "You add water and turn on the flame" the unspoken "duh" was very much implied. So I went back inside, and I start adding water. I turned on the flame, then realized, heh, I'd forgotten to add the porridge. So I dump a bunch o' the stuff in. It looks fine, I feel like I'm doing this quite well. I turn away, to peel some garlic, and then I hear something. I turn around and--


OH MY FREAKING GOODNESS, it's overflowing!


Ha. So I panic, and completely forget what to do when something is boiling over (to take away the source of heat, dur), and I wave my hands at it, like a magician, frantically yelling, "STOPPIT! PLEASE STOP!!!!" Hey, it works on other chilluns, it should work on porridge. Of course, after a second, I regain my composure and turn off the heat. Works brilliantly. I move the pot to the other stove/heat thing on the stove, and clean up the dirty stove. Now. Repeat this process of overflowing and moving and cleaning 2x.


When the porridge is finally done,  I sit back, and sigh with relief. Gah. Well...now I  know how to make porridge...or, how not to make porridge.


Before I go to sleep, I might as well paste a little section of a chapter of Siri-Poo (my Harry Potter fanfiction, it's Sirius/OC, if you can't tell). xiy, my editor, has not seen this part yet, so...it's new to all!


****


Gail (my OC) looked with confusion at the tankard of some unknown liquid that Sirius had just thrust into her hands.


"Firewhiskey," he explained, raising his own (slightly more full) tankard.


"Eh, you know we're not at the drinking age yet?" Gail asked, a bit wary of the alcoholic beverage in her hand. Sirius shrugged.


"No one'll know, 'sides, we're celebrating!" This last bit was reinforced by a loud shout of 'HURRAH FOR POTTER! BEST CAPTAIN EVER!' signifying that although it was very late, the Gryffindor house was still up and about. Gail tentatively sipped a bit of the Firewhiskey. It burned as it went down her throat, and she started spluttering, trying to make the horrible feeling go away. Sirius laughed, and after gulping down a bit of his own, reached for Gail's.


"Should of known you can't keep down a drink!" he snickered. Gail looked affronted, and promptly grabbed her drink back. This time, she took a long swig of it, and found it was better than it had been the first time. She swallowed another mouthful. Before long, Gail was guzzling down the Firewhiskey with Sirius by her side, wondering how she could have ever disliked it. She voiced this thought to Sirius. Sirius nodded, although, it was more of a sideways swaying of his Firewhiskey imbibed head.


"I like thissstuff! Issgood!"


"Yeah! Fir-furr-feeur...thisstuffff! Issverry...reffree-freez-frushh....rejoo-juuv-jivanahting...er, coOL!"


****


How'd you like it? Good? I hope. :) Fun little part to write. The hangover should be even more fun to write about :D


Hup, well, it's off to bed we go! *whistles* Heigh-ho heigh-ho, it's off to bed I go!.... yup. Need that sleep.


Ack. Greek. House is smart. Y'know why? She didn't take morning classes like...Greek.


Luv, Lynda