Breakfast at this time of year is a healthy purgatory for me. December to March is season for porridge. Porridge (Flavahan’s Organic Oats)  made slowly with just water and a little salt, at that. I turn my face away from the delights of eggs and sausages and bacon and kippers and toast and croissants and crème fraiche and honey and all the rest, and endure ordeal by porridge in the name of gastronomic virtue. The trouble with porridge is that it is just about the most unalluring food on the planet – grey, blobby, gloopy, boring, boring, boring. It is as unsexy as food can be. It intones  rectitude. And so occasionally I fall from grace. On goes the double cream (from Brinkworth Dairy in the Stroud Farmer’s Market) and the Demerara sugar (Billington’s Unrefined), transforming a plate of depressing nutritional righteousness into a plate of spirit-lifting sin – warm, solid base of porridge; cool, soothing, velvety cream; sweet, crunchy sugar. A breakfast worth eating.

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