How to Not Make Granola: A Recipe for Procrastination

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I have been trying to make granola for three weeks.

Scratch that.

I have been thinking about trying to make granola for three weeks

The first—“I have been trying”—is misleading. It implies that I did the thing and it somehow didn’t work out—I burned it or the pan went flying after I tripped on an errant dog bone for the millionth time. While these scenarios would be a “most likely” from the eight ball had I actually tried to make it, they are not even close to what the past three weeks look like. Far too action-oriented, they are.

The past three weeks look more like this:

I wake up, scribble “Make granola” on a new green sticky note. (I could just recycle the previous day’s note, which lists the same seven to dos I still have not done--my stickies are more and more becoming “not to do lists”—but it feels like a good day for a fresh start and so I use a new one).

I look at the sticky and smile. I’m feeling hopeful, zestful even, about the thought of stirring oats and nuts and dried berries and the warmth that will emanate from the oven when it’s roasting.

I savor the image and I sit down and start working at my desk.

Occasionally, some time will appear on the clock that seems fitting to get the process started—this making of a delicious crumbly healthful breakfast cereal/snack.

Any way, at Some Time that Seems Fitting, I will half get up out of my chair with the idea to finally bake this thing.  Then the Gremlins arrive. I think about…

·      all the dirty, heavy cast irons that are in the oven that have to be moved

·      the baking sheets that might need to be cleaned and dried in order to lay the granola out upon it

·      the ingredients that are scattered all over the place: in the pantry, the lazy susan and the too-tall-for-me shelf

·      pulling up the recipe I’m using on my phone, which has a ton of brain frittering ads on it, bound to blink at me and make my brain hurt

·      the mess I’ll create with 17 bowls all over the place, flour spotting the ground and counter despite the fact that the recipe calls for no flour. Somehow it’ll happen. It always does.

…And I will slowly start to wither. A few minutes will have passed and so now, when I glance at the clock, we’ve arrived at Some Time That Seems Less Fitting. Luckily I’m still only halfway out of my chair, so I can easily sit down, aided further by gravity. A different time will do, I cluck.

This happens about five times a day, so given it’s been three weeks, a conservative estimate is that I’ve done this about 105 times (Don’t check my math. If I get a message from you and your only comment is that my math is wrong, we’ll never speak again.).

The day continues. In between half getting up out of my chair and fully getting up out of my chair for other things, I walk around feeling awfully about the fact that I haven’t made the damn granola. It claws at me like some ghost life, where Nick and I have a bowl of artful granola in our hands each and we look at each other and smile. Alas.

I have every reason to make it and ample motivation. The first is simple: It would be delicious. The second is our friends next door just had a baby and it’s the easiest snack to share for them to munch on while they’re doing the whole new parent thing. There’s all these fabulous people who would just be outta their minds for it.

Putting love and acts of service aside, I see if comparing myself to others might stir the gumption.

I scroll through Instagram. People are making sourdough, they’re fermenting their own beer, they’re placing a dainty edible flower on top of a cake they’ve been working on for eight hours. That’s when I found I’ve slipped out of my chair to the floor like a noodle and I’ve closed my eyes to have a nap. FOMO is not doing it for me.

At this point, it’s nearly dark, which as you all know is a terrible time to make granola. The kitchen’s about to be used for dinner, you know, three hours from now.

Tomorrow seems like a perfect day and the day after that, better still. Only the green sticky note remains for the day’s effort. That, and the scent of maple syrup from the ghost life of granola.