They are more costly, no question, than Quaker Oats, my childhood stalwart. They take a lot longer to fix - a full 30 minutes of bubbling away on the stove top, though you are not required to stand there watching the pot, and there are shortcuts; soaking them overnight, for one.
And while a strict locavore may lament their gross violation of the 100-mile-diet rule, there is this local connection still broadcast on the face of the can: They were awarded the gold medal in Group IV at the international exhibition of the centennial in Philadelphia, Sept. 27, 1876. (Precisely what Group IV involved is unclear, though a little later the oats won a prize in Chicago for "uniformity of granulation.")
Am I fond of these oats? Oh, more than that. I am proud of them, holding their ground, staying the course, letting me have a hand in their flowering, stirring away, like spinning a prayer wheel (I imagine), or cranking one of those stove-top Whirley Pop popcorn poppers.
They are a reminder - or maybe a rejoinder - in a world where we're distracted by instant messaging and distanced from breakfast by quickie envelopes of powdered oatmeal that there is certain satisfaction not only in time-saving, but in time-taking.
Something is gained in simmering down a pot of tomato gravy, baking beans overnight in a crock, boiling the oatmeal until it thickens. That time is encoded - as in barrel-aging, or hanging beef, or cheese-cellaring. And not just in the final product, but in the atmospherics of the preparation: The roasty fragrance of those oats cooking curls through the kitchen, even the thin steam taking on the fullness of smoke.
In the bowl, finally, the oatmeal is not gluey and loose, not pastey and themeless. The oats mound up, the grains tender but still distinct, popping to the chew like kernels of corn or, well, salmon roe would be a stretch.
