The morning after, I found myself shuffling about in his old, beige Birkenstock sandals. Drawn by the noise of running water and hassled plates, I headed to the kitchen. He was leaning over the sink, washing the old, stained Bialetti from the old coffee grounds, filling the base to the brim with fresh water, then spooning the coffee into the filter in a familiar mountain. I didn't notice he had left the room until I heard the kitchen coming to life. Kitchen noises always seem to wake me up – they waken the dormant hunger I learnt to go to sleep with. I entered the room wearing those sandals and his pajama pants. He looked at me and gave me an inquisitive look, then an amused smile. I asked if I could do anything. He didn't speak, but gazed at the chair – an invitation to sit down.
Next, he was cutting an apple. First in half, then in slices, then in cubes. He placed half of it in a yellow bowl, the other in a second, mismatched one. The coffee was starting to gurgle, not quite as heavily as when it is done, but as if it was giving a first warning. He slipped quickly from the table to the fridge and pulled out a tub of plain (organic, I noticed) yogurt, and a bottle of fresh milk. A few scoops of creamy, silky yogurt slipped on top of the apple like a porcelain casting. Oats, nuts and raisins landed at last. He placed one bowl in front of me, then carefully poured the freshly brewed coffee in a mug while asking if I wanted milk. I nodded. Everything was so simple, and yet so different.
I had never had muesli in my life before, not like that anyway. I used to hate plain yogurt, and oats were as unfamiliar to me as exotic fruits from the Amazon. In my mind, cereal was flakes sunk in milk, and besides, I had stopped eating cereal a while back. There I was, studying food as a Master degree, and still not knowing what rolled oats were meant for. I sipped my coffee first, a tad hesitant. My mind was still full of thoughts… I was hungry but not quite able (or ready) to pick up my spoon and dig in. I guess it just happened at one point. He must have distracted me, for I don't remember my first spoonful of that bowl of muesli with yogurt and fruit. I don't remember my first impression, or if I closed my eyes to feel taste and texture better. I am not sure if I liked it or not back then, but I sense I must have – as the majority of our breakfasts together after that first looked a lot like it.
