An abundance of cornflakes

"Cornflakes. Cornflakes. Cornflakes." Says 16-yo in his dressing gown, with a grin on his face, and a laugh in his voice, pointing at different locations in the kitchen.

"Cornflakes. And Special K." I reply, with self-justifying weight in my voice, and pointing to the two different varieties of Special K on the top of the fridge.

16-yo laughs. "I think I'll have toast instead".

I always have one item that I stock up on. It lodges itself in my memory as something we get through a lot of, and that we mustn't run out of. Then, when I'm going round the supermarket, I buy it. If I don't have a list, I buy it. Even if I have a list, I go off liste, and buy it. "I might as well stock up while I'm here", I think, as I pass it. Then I get home and see that my purchase was unnecessary. "Oh well. We'll use it up. Must remember not to get any next time." Remember for next time? Ha! No chance.

For a while, it was Ritz crackers. I think that one stemmed from my excitement when we got to America that they have Ritz crackers. Just like at home! The Ritz crackers phase lasted for a long while. It didn't really matter, as we had American-size storage options in our kitchen and utility room. If that near-miss tornado had struck our house, the ground would have been littered with red cardboard, and soggy wheat-based discs, but I guess the embarrassment of having the quirks of your kitchen cupboards revealed is unimportant in those situations.

Then it was lentils. For a short while. Turns out we don't get through lentils as quickly as I think we do. But they're so healthy that it's hard to walk past them in the aisle without feeling that stocking up on them is a good thing. And I had a recipe for sausages and lentils that I was convinced my children loved, even though they repeatedly told me they didn't. I wanted them to love it, and the sheer force of my desire was enough to lodge lentils in that "buy me" spot in my brain.

For the moment, it's cornflakes. Cornflakes are my domestic comfort blanket. Not to eat, but just to know I have them there. In the case of a nuclear armageddon, we'll at least have a good breakfast option.

The cornflakes are little more out of hand than usual, for two reasons. First, I haven't quite got used to my smaller kitchen, and those big packets of cereal, they're BIG. They don't fit in cupboards. So when I do stock up, it's all very visible. They have to stand like soldiers to attention on top of the fridge, or lurk in the utility room, annoyingly in front of the outside light switch, (though I'm not using that much at this time of year, and perhaps the Great Cornflake Plenty will have passed by the time the nights draw in again in the autumn. Autumn 2016, that is.)

Second, it was those dreaded multi-buy offers, combined with a voucher incentive. A 21st century housewife is powerless in the face of such weapons, especially the lethal combination of them both at once, in a pincer movement. I was at the till, and my trolley had come to about £4 less than the total needed to get a "Week 3" voucher, and I'd already got weeks 1 and 2. So I asked the cashier to wait a second, and rushed off to the spot, nearby, where I knew the cornflakes were on "two-for" offer, because I'd already put some in my trolley. I came back with two boxes. He scanned them through, but - because they were on special offer - they didn't tip the balance over the required total. I needed something else, but - under the pressure of the narrowing eyes of the queue behind me - I couldn't think of what else to get. My mind froze, then jumped for the simplest option. I went and got another couple of packets of cornflakes. We'll get through them, my inner voice whispered, down its well-worn neural pathways. It was only when I got home that I remembered just how big those bumper packs are. And just how many were already on the top of the fridge.

Cornflakes, in my defence, are good. They have a lot less sugar than most other cereals, even the diet-y ones. Special K, for example, has lots of sugar in it, particularly if you get the packets with added flakes of suspiciously highly coloured, edible dried substance, which might or might not once have been fruit.

I feel like the fourth little pig, who built her house out of cornflake packets. I know that when the big bad wolf comes, the cornflake bricks will probably not stand his huffing and puffing, but at least he'll be distracted by the prospect of a vitamin-enriched snack while we escape.

What about you? Do you hoard food? If so, what kind?

Tornado

If ever there was a bloggable moment, this is it. It's amazing that we have power. A tornado has just come through the city, and power lines must be down all over. I'm glad we do, though. I like to connect with you all, in the stillness that has become my night.

Now I really wish I'd written that blog post I've always meant to write, about what we do when there are tornadoes predicted. Then you'd have some background against which to understand what has just been happening. Too late now.

The storms have been moving across the Midwest all day. We've been following them. Nothing too close, nothing to worry about. Then at about 9.00pm (I only know because 8-yo was in bed asleep, 11-yo wasn't), we started to pay more attention to the local tv channel, now devoted entirely to storm-watching. It still had that slightly exciting feeling to it. And then it didn't. They started talking about a tornado headed straight for our city. Not a likelihood of a tornado. Not a storm that has all the signs favorable for a tornado. A tornado on the ground. Half a mile wide. And the weather man is telling everyone to make last minute preparations. Then he tells us to go to our shelter area.

We are in the basement. We have wondered about sitting under Husband's work bench, but (not in front of the kids), discuss whether the benefits of being under something solid are outweighed by the dangers of being in the workshop. Most tornado injuries for people inside their house are from flying objects. The workshop is full of objects you wouldn't want to fly at you at high velocity. I don't even crack a joke about how tidy it is (what with the house being on the market). I don't even joke. It must be serious.

So we huddle together in the little space that is a storage area between two rooms. We usually have a wine rack there, and a conglomeration of boxes and junk, but of course everywhere is so minimalist at the moment. Did I mention that our house is very tidy because it's on the market? We huddle together, and I'm thinking "This can't be happening. We've only got 2 more months here. This can't be happening. That's lousy timing." 11-yo says it'll be something to tell the grandchildren. I think about the war. Families huddled together night after night.

We're wearing bike helmets. Mine still has the instruction booklet attached to it, which keeps banging against my neck. Husband doesn't have one. He and I don't discuss who should have the adult one. He just handed it to me and I put it on. Why would that be? We're padded with sofa cushions, and snuggled under duvets and blankets. When the tornado comes by, we're going to lift the duvets over our heads. We tell the children that it will sound like a freight train going over us. There might be a silence, but that will be because we're in the middle of it, and it will start again.

I tell everyone to take deep breaths, "into your bellies" I say, "not just into your lungs". I am strangely calm. I think of you all, and I want my mind to come up with some clever quip about blog fodder, but it doesn't.

We have a laptop with us, and we're watching the weather man track the tornado. The weather man tells his non-essential colleagues at the weather centre to head down to their basement. He tells viewers that he will follow them at the last moment. The tornado is on the outer edges of the city. I can picture exactly where. "That's where we were this morning", says Husband (who took 11-yo to his soccer match there). They put up a projected path of the tornado. The neighborhood adjoining ours is mentioned by name. The tornado is expected there at 10.38. I look at Husband and I say "this is it. This really is it." He looks at me.

I tell the kids - again - that we are going to be ok. If you're in a basement, you're (usually) unhurt. I say that we are going to be ok, but that the house might be damaged. We have already prayed several quick prayers, but we pray again. For ourselves, for the city, for those without basements, for anyone outside, for those who are scared. 14-yo says that it's the exact time the Titanic went down. 11-yo has hidden his face under the blanket. 8-yo's eyes are wide and bloodshot.

We wait for the freight train. It's less than 5 minutes away. We're all hot, under the duvets and cushions. I am ridiculously proud of my children.

The tornado changes course. Instead of heading north, it veers east. There is no freight train. We think of the people in the suburbs to the east. They were hit by a dreadful tornado in 1991. The neighbourhood next to ours isn't mentioned any more. The tornado is north east of the city now. It feels more confusing than anything else. I should be relieved, surely, but I'm just confused. It didn't come. The freight train didn't come.

The power goes out. I text my brother in Paris, so that he can tell the family we're ok, when they wake and see pictures on the news.

And then it gets surreal. The power comes on again. The kids find some digestive biscuits in the basement (I thought you'd like that bit!) which I bought yesterday at a new British supplies shop which I visited just out of interest. I'm long past the need for British goods, but I was just curious, and it was one of those situations where I couldn't really leave without buying something, so I bought digestives for myself, fruit pastilles, refreshers and love hearts for the children. We eat digestive biscuits, and drink water. We go outside and look into the darkness. It's not raining, but it must have been - the side of the road is a raging torrent. I comment that we won't have to water the new turf we've had put down (because our house... oh, I think I've told you that). I get emergency text messages from the school, telling me that if my child was at the prom, they were safe and sound in the basement shelter of the country club. Wow - that would be a prom to remember.

I feel very wobbly, but very calm. The two can co-exist. 11-yo asks if he can play his clarinet, because that will make him feel better. I can't think of a good reason to say no, so I say yes. 8-yo then decides that playing the piano will make her feel better too. She's had a total of 3 lessons so far, and has one tune. Old MacDonald. So she plays Old MacDonald, and 11-yo joins in on his clarinet, but in a different key. They don't seem to mind. I told you it got surreal. 11-yo then says he wants to play something soothing and calming, so Old MacDonald stops, and he plays a haunting, wandering melody. I reflect that I had no idea he was so good at the clarinet.

I suggest that we put the kids to bed on the floor of the spare bedroom in the basement, and take it in turns to go to bed in the room with them. We need to keep watch through the night. There are more storms coming up from the south (damn you, Texas), and I don't think we would hear the tornado sirens from the basement. So this is my watch, Bloggy Friends. It makes sense to do it this way round. I'm a night owl, Husband is a morning lark.

There's a moth at the window in front of the desk, attracted by the light. It's very determined, fluttering and fluttering against the glass pane, trying to get in. How do you suppose a moth survives a storm which produces hail the size of golf balls, and winds that can rip a roof off a house?

I'm going to go now. Those storms might be approaching, and I need to be on top of what is happening. Thank you for keeping watch with me, dear Bloggy Friends.