I've always loved my grains

I awoke this morning to a light, cool breeze that came sneaking through a bedroom window and fell upon my neck. I immediately thought, it's still oatmeal weather. And shortly thereafter, while adding lovely red strawberries to a heaping bowl another thought crossed my mind, I've always loved my grains.

["Life goes better with grains - and red berries"]

The thought, prompted by a nearby photo of my son and I in Quebec City, is definitely true. Grains - stored in giant bags inside small town Co-ops where my dad worked and in the form of breads and many hearty cereals my mother cooked for me when I was a wee tad - have always been a part of my history. My grains and I surely go back to the pablum placed upon my tongue during the year I was born, 1949. Seven long and healthy decades we go back. And then I thought, there was that altogether lovely experience with a particular grain in the year 2000.

On a restful, sunny afternoon, an hour or two after I'd run a strenuous half-marathon - from Levi to Quebec City, on a fiercely windy day along the south and north banks of the St. Lawrence River -  my loving interest in a special concoction made from barley was sparked by my younger son. After I'd crossed the finish line and changed into dry clothes we retired to a sidewalk cafe inside the Old City, watched a parade of classic cars drive past the cafe's open window and sampled - several times - a unique beer whose name I'd never heard 'til then, i.e., Fin du Monde.

["The background scenes are painted upon stone walls"]

"It's very cloudy," I said while giving my first glass a thorough 'look over'.

"But how does it taste?" Paul said.

"Hmmmmmmmmm. Lovely," I said. "In fact, it's lovely lovely."

Yes, I've always loved my grains, particularly on cool days or after road races.

Photos by GH

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