The Oatmeal Oracle of Midtown

Last night I dreamed I was living high above Manhattan in a sleek glass high-rise, the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling windows that dared you to feel superior to the ants below. My life had found its rhythm: each morning I played hazy, ethereal piano melodies—half Satie, half spa soundtrack—while conjuring great cauldrons of steel-cut oatmeal, slow-simmered like a religious rite.

And this wasn’t just any oatmeal. It was mythic. Creamy, textural, celestial. Each batch better than the last. The grains plumped with devotion, the aroma saintly. Word spread. Soon, ravenous New Yorkers had an app—OatDrop—that pinged their phones the moment a new batch emerged. They queued up like disciples at the altar of nourishment, ascending to my apartment in respectful silence, bowls in hand, soothed by the piano and spoonfuls of sanctified grain.

I wasn’t just making breakfast. I was feeding souls. I had become a guru of wellness and warm carbs. And in that vaporous, ludicrous dreamspace, I felt something I rarely do in waking life: purpose. I was finally at peace—serving oatmeal to the hungry.