Unbound at the Kitchen Table: Porridge, Parenting, and the Moment My Poker Face Broke

Porridge, Poker Faces & the Power of a Teenager

This morning began with porridge.

Not proper porridge, mind you—but porridge nonetheless.

My 15-year-old son was in the kitchen, calmly preparing a bowl of oats using only water. No milk. No honey. No pinch of salt lovingly scattered across the top. Just… water.

I heard myself respond before I even realised what was happening.

“That’s not how you make porridge.”

It came out exactly like the old 90s Uncle Toby’s instant porridge advertisement—full-bodied, definitive, and absolutely channeling a cranky old uncle energy I didn’t know I possessed. 😄

He, of course, was delighted.

What followed was one of those rare, magical moments of banter where a teenager intentionally pokes the bear—and the bear unexpectedly roars in theatrical disgust instead of retreating behind a poker face.

Usually, my expressions are well guarded. This time? Not a chance.

My face did an entire aerobics class on the spot. Eyebrows. Nose. Mouth. The works. Total, unfiltered dismay at the idea of eating porridge without milk, without honey, and without salt. I couldn’t mask it even if my life depended on it.

He teased me mercilessly.

“Have you ever even tried porridge made with water?”

Reader—my face answered before my mouth ever could.

A Scottish Thread I Can’t Seem to Escape

As I stood there, horrified, it dawned on me (yet again) how attuned I am to Scottish food—and not just the sounds of Scotland.

Recently, just before Christmas, I found myself at a shopping centre (which I avoid like the plague at the best of times). As I got out of my car in the car park, I heard bagpipes.

That keening sound.

I swear my body began drifting toward it like the Pied Piper had summoned me. I almost couldn’t stop my feet. For a brief, alarming moment, I was convinced I might wander straight out of the car park and into traffic in pursuit of the source of my enchantment.

I blame my childhood.

I spent my early years dancing the Highland Fling and sword dance with the incredible Mrs Gray in Blacktown, NSW—who taught many Highland dancers across Western Sydney in the 60s, 70s, and 80s. That training clearly etched something deep into my bones.

So perhaps my outrage over watery porridge isn’t dramatic at all.

Perhaps it’s ancestral.

Laughter We Didn’t Know We Needed

The Laurel and Hardy–style banter between my son and me went on for the better part of an hour. Silly. Light-hearted. Genuinely joyful.

We haven’t had many moments like that since my uncle’s death in 2017—a loss that rocked us to our core. Somewhere along the way, seriousness became the default.

So to have my adolescent son see a much lighter side of me—to laugh with me, not around me—felt quietly profound.

Of course, there is now a price to pay.

Because my poker face cracked so spectacularly, he has discovered my weakness.

From now on, any time he wants to distract me from a staunch moment—good or bad—I suspect he’ll simply yell:

“PORRIDGE!”

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about a teenager having that much power over my emotional responses… but here we are.

A Cocktail to Close the Chapter

After all that, I think I’ve earned a cocktail.

From the new recipe book I gave myself for Christmas: The Cocktail Diaries, there’s one that feels absolutely perfect for this moment:

The Sassy Brose
by Brian Prugalidad (page 180)

It blends my favourite way to drink tea—the Scottish way! With honey, oats, and cream.

And honestly?

Oh. Yum.

Some things should never be made with just water.