My little girls have discovered porridge.

They were given a book about a magic little pot that would bubble over with the sweetest porridge if you said the phrase, “Boil pot, boil.” But there was a catch. You also had to know the command, “Stop, pot, stop,” or you would find yourself in a heap of porridge.

So every morning they now request porridge. A hot breakfast doesn’t always fit into my morning schedule, and I could really use that self-cleaning magic pot. But alas, the cold cereals now sit up on the highest shelf, and I have moved down the grits, oatmeal and cream of wheat. Fortunately for me, my girls have no idea what porridge is other than warm, creamy and eaten with a spoon. So I have served them everything from leftover mashed potatoes to warm sweetened milk poured over buttered toast.

My oldest, not exactly a morning person, growls her way into the kitchen. She sucks in her belly showing her ribs and bellows like a lumberjack, “I’m hongary.” The first time she did this at the age of two, Jeff and I stared at each other in complete shock, fearful that she just might eat us. Somewhere down the line, an ancestor must have shared a cave with a bear.

Yet my little sour puss, once fed, is all sugar and plums. Always a fruit lover and a little gourmet to boot, she loves the part of the story where, on a whim, some fresh blackberries are stirred in. In her warm oatmeal, served with a pat of melting butter, I stir in a little brown sugar, the slightest grind of nutmeg, a dash of salt and fresh sliced strawberries. She rolls her eyes back in her head and purrs at each bite. She usually follows her little trip to nirvana with hugs and kisses for me.

Of course, I am rolling my eyes because I know it’s just oatmeal, and we are late for school. Yet her literal sugaring and buttering me up inspires me not only to put on an apron, but also to get up 10 minutes early to make her a steaming bowl of hearty porridge (warm grits cooked in cream with Colby jack cheese stirred in and topped with crumbled bacon) and a cup of raspberry zinger tea with honey and lemon for breakfast.

My baby, an absolute joy in the mornings, runs into the kitchen and says, “I happy to see you.” Lurking underneath her sheer radiance is a bittersweet dark soul. The taste of fresh fruit actually makes her shudder. She prefers unsweetened hot tea to juice. I like to call her porridge chocolate chip cookie dough. Into her warm oatmeal, sprinkled with brown sugar and dotted with pinches of butter, I drop chocolate chips. As each one disappears into the sweet goo, she counts the ways she loves me.

They are a sweet sight in the morning, cheeks blushed from the warm steam rising from the bowls of porridge. They smack it down until their bellies protrude like those of little puppy dogs. When they are finished and wiped clean, off to school they go.

Grits is their very favorite (my least since my baby once decided to stick a handful down her diaper). Grits is scraped from the floor, oatmeal is scoured from the table, and I take comfort in knowing at least I sent them off with something to stick to their ribs.

I have resigned myself to getting up early, thankful that they are at least not asking for curds and whey. But this morning, on their way out, I heard them singing, “Pease porridge hot, Pease porridge cold, Pease porridge in the pot nine days old.”

“Darn it all to heck in a hand basket,” I think to myself. “It will be a cold day in July before I serve up nine-day-old pease porridge.”

But then again, it sure beats scrubbing a pot every morning. Warmed mashed purple hull peas seasoned with bacon drippings and sprinkled with salt, served with some hot water cornbread, sliced jalapeños and a wedge of cheddar doesn’t sound half bad.