Sugar and Survival

Oatmeal wasn’t his favorite food. It was just all he could afford.

It’s strange how time rewrites a memory. How, further down the line, after more scars, more moments, more waking up to how the world really works—you start seeing the truth behind the old stories.

I had one of those revelations today. It hit me while thinking about my stepdad—specifically his “favorite” weekend breakfast: a giant bowl of oatmeal drowning in sugar. He'd load it with scoops of the stuff, enough to rot your teeth on sight. And maybe it wasn’t the oatmeal he loved. Maybe it was just the sugar. Or maybe it was the story.

Today, I see it differently. We had a big family. “Money was tight” is the understatement of the year. My stepdad was a complicated man—broken in ways I still haven’t forgiven. And yet… this one thing, I give space for.

Because now, I get it. He was trying to turn a burden into a blessing. Trying to convince a house full of kids that what we had was enough. That oatmeal was a treat. That life was sweet.

Fast forward to yesterday—my teenage son told me my cooking isn’t “flavorful” or “creative” enough. At first, I laughed it off. Typical teenage angst. They always think they know.

And this morning, it sat heavy on my chest.

Because the truth is—I cook the way I do because it’s all I can afford. I count pennies the way some people count stars. I stretch what I have and call it love. I don’t ask for handouts, because I believe a man is built by what he can create—for himself, and for the ones he loves and protects.

So I'll own it, my meals these days aren’t gourmet. They’re not packed with spice or flair. They don’t taste like they did when I had more to give. And yet, it still meets the need.

These days, my luxury is a $10 bowl at CAVA maybe ince a week. That’s the high life now.

So I told my son: “I cook how I do because it’s what I’ve got. What matters most to me is making sure you’re fed, that you’re growing, that you’re taken care of. Maybe it’s not the tastiest thing you’ve ever had, and maybe that’s okay.”

Of course, he tried to debate—tried to backpedal, twist words, clarify. Teenagers.

I cut him off. “Son, I love you. The conversation's over. You said what you said. I told you why things are the way they are. That’s it. And I still made your lunch, didn’t I? If I didn’t care, I would’ve said, ‘Make your own damn food.’”

And that’s when it hit me.

My stepfather wasn’t selling us on oatmeal. He was selling us on survival, laced with sugar. He was telling us: this is what we’ve got, and we’re gonna love it. Because sometimes, love looks like pretending oatmeal is your favorite meal. So your kids believe they’re not missing out on anything. And the reality is, Oatmeal SUCKS if it's not masked with an actual flavor. 🙏🙏🙏