On the few occasions when my grandfather wasn’t at the cabin to cook breakfast for us and my father was entrenched in a project by the time we were ready to eat we had to fend for ourselves. That usually meant cereal.
My father would stock up on small boxes of cereal for these mornings. They were perfect for a bachelor father—food in a package that become its own disposable bowl.
We’d take a box and then with one of our yellow-handle steak knives—a gift with the purchase of a tank of gas—cut an H along the perforated lines on the top. Then we’d pull up the sides, making sure the paper inside wasn’t torn on the bottom. We’d add milk, grab a spoon and eat breakfast.
I was thinking about those small boxes not too long ago when Josh and I were in the cereal aisle picking out a box for home. While he pondered, I searched the shelves, hoping I’d find a package of those small boxes.
I was searching so intensely that when Josh asked, “Can I get this?” I didn’t even look. When I didn’t answer, he asked again. Then I turned my head towards him and couldn’t believe what I saw. He was holding a package of the same small boxes we ate when we were his age. The only difference is they no longer have the perforations to make a bowl.