This should have been written first. Like the Sweet Valley Twins prior to Sweet Valley High. Before the westward ho bandwagon, before the buckets of strawberries, rhubarb tarts, and homegrown salad, there was granola. Granola in my tiny New York City apartment was the only connection I could manage on a daily basis that reminded me of what 'wholesome' meant. I don't mean whole grains, though my batches of granola included plenty. I mean someone who walks into a kitchen and knows what to do, or wants to learn, or at least cares where their sustenance comes from and is thankful. Someone who smells baking oats and thinks of their mother -- and then calls her. I didn't have a lot of time for either in NYC, but I did have time for the occasional huge batch of granola on the weekend. Monday morning I'd bring a canister into work and sit it on the corner of my desk as my contribution to corporate well being. It was generally gobbled up within a day or so unless I hid it in my drawer (a desperate act to get me through a rough week). If you asked me for a recipe, I rambled off a list of ingredients but that's as far as I could get. Making granola was an exercise in reckless and beautiful abandon.