The Case of the Big Bad Granola

It might not look like much, but this bowl of granola, approximating eight to nine cups of wholesome goodness, cost me approximately 20 bucks, three hours, and a house that stinks of burnt oat.

How does one make such costly, time-consuming granola, you might ask.

I'll tell you:

Step One) Encounter delicious home-cooked granola, casually slid out of the oven with ease and style at the hands of one Ms. Gourmet Sujata.

Step Two) After savoring a toasted pecan straight off the baking sheet, resolve to make some home-cooked goodness of your very own.

Step Three) Because you're cheap, carefully plot the acquisition of spendy baking goods such as old fashioned rolled oats, wheat germ (nothing less than Dr. Bob will do), maple syrup, vegetable cooking oil, walnuts (because pecans are far too dear), powdered milk, and vanilla extract.

Step Four) Wait until you live in a home where operating the oven doesn't cost half your monthly paycheck.

Step Five) Make the plunge. Pull out the good ol' Joy of Cooking and look up a granola recipe.

Step Six) Come to terms with the fact that you do not have three to four of the ingredients required and intend to substitute walnuts for almonds (because your cheap). Rice bran was nowhere to be found.

Step Seven) Spread three cups of old fashioned oats on a baking sheet. Heat oven to 300 degrees. Toast, stirring frequently, for 15 minutes.

Step Eight) In the meantime, mix your other dry ingredients as follows: 1 and half cup wheat germ, half cup powdered milk, one cup walnuts, and for the heck of it, one cup peanuts (another nut for the poor man).

Step Nine) In a small saucepan over low heat, warm a half cup of vegetable oil and a half cup of maple syrup (or cheap syrup from a plastic bottle, as it may be). Add a couple dashes of vanilla extract.

Step Ten) Pour oil/syrup/vanilla mixture into bowl with dry ingredients. Mix well.

Step Eleven) Take out oats. Mix into bowl with oil/syrup/vanilla/dry ingredient mixture.

Step Twelve) Taking out an additional baking sheet, spread the mixture evenly between the two. Slide back into the oven for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Step Thirteen) Discover, 45 minutes later, that 45 minutes is far too long. Try valiantly to eat the blackened oat and walnut clusters anyway. Fail. Sadly scrape the whole mess into the compost. Stew about it for the rest of the day.

Step Fourteen) Try again the next day. Vow to shorten the baking time by 15 minutes. Follow every step the same but stupidly heat the oven to 350 instead of 300. Why? I've told you. Because you are impossibly stupid.

Step Fifteen) Take out the oats at 30 minutes, certain you have modified the recipe and created your very own sheet of home-cooked goodness.

Step Sixteen) Discover oats and walnuts in similar state of blackened, tar-like misery. Cuss. Moan. Generally stomp around the house in a foul mood, bemoaning the loss of spendy baking goods and pride.

Step Seventeen) Come to terms with the fact that you will be in a foul mood until you can make a bowl of granola that is not burnt to a crisp. Assess cupboards. Make short trip to Walgreens where nuts are sold so cheaply that they are probably not nuts at all. Perhaps they are styrofoam in nut form.

Step Eighteen) Return to the house. Repeat process, ensuring that the oven is dialed to 300 degrees and that the baking time has been reduced to 30 minutes. Read your book right next to the goddamn oven and check every three minutes or so to determine whether or not the oats and the oven are in cahoots to make you go absolutely crazy.

Step Nineteen) On your third try, pull out the baking sheet and admire the happy, golden walnut clusters, the toast oats. Add a cup of dried cranberries. Mix well. Serve up with a dollop of vanilla ice cream.

Step Twenty) Send out a victorious text. You have conquered the Big Bad Granola. If you're feeling particularly proud, you may even want to post it to your blog. But that really is going a bit too far.