Quaker Oats mixed with Blueberries, Cheese, Egg, and Chocolate Sprinkles

What? That was probably the first thought that crossed your mind when you saw the title. Quaker Oats with blueberries, cheese, egg, and chocolate sprinkles? At first glance, it seems like an unexpected harmony of familiar ingredients, the kind of combination you might imagine emerging from a spontaneous fridge raid where disparate elements are thrown together without much forethought.

Yet, there was more to this dish than mere improvisation. Rather, it was a carefully curated composition, where every ingredient had its place. At the core of the dish were Quaker Oats, a familiar and wholesome breakfast staple. The blueberries, in turn, offered a burst of antioxidants, while the duo of cheese and egg represented a timeless flavor combination cherished by many. Topping it all off were chocolate sprinkles, a simple indulgence that no child could ever resist.

Believe it or not, this unusual concoction was the very breakfast my grandmother would gingerly prepare for me each morning before I left for primary school. She wanted to give me something that was not only nourishing for a growing young girl, but also tempting enough to satisfy my childish cravings. What emerged was thus a curious blend of part comfort food and part health food, that revealed both her inventiveness in the kitchen and her quiet devotion to making sure I started each day feeling cared for.

Did I enjoy it back then? To be honest, not really.

While I made sure to finish every spoonful, the strange mix of sweetness and warmth often made me grimace. The grainy, sugary texture of the chocolate sprinkles never quite blended with the soft, heavy mush of the blueberries and oatmeal. Some mornings, I would have preferred something more conventional, envying my friends with their neat slices of buttered toast or cheerful bowls of cereal.

Yet, looking back now, I find myself strangely longing for it — longing for the quiet mornings, the steam rising from the bowl, and the faint stickiness of sugar clinging to the spoon.

What I miss isn’t the taste of the combination itself, but the feeling wrapped around it. The warmth of my grandmother’s kitchen and the unspoken assurance that someone had risen early to care for me...these were blessings that I did not recognize then. Over time, the memory of that breakfast has softened, blurring at the edges like an old photograph. And the flavors I once disliked have become aching reminders of a simpler tenderness I took for granted. It was no longer about the oatmeal or the chocolate sprinkles, but about the love that lingered in the air and made ordinary mornings feel quietly extraordinary.

What We Call Comfort Food

Ask someone what their comfort food is, and you’re unlikely to hear “foie gras” or “truffle pasta.” Comfort food is rarely luxurious. Instead, people name dishes that are deeply personal and oddly specific: ‘Egg prata from Stall 14 at Ang Mo Kio,’ or ‘Economic rice from the Kopitiam opposite Cedar Girls’ Secondary School, with less rice, bean sprouts, and chicken cutlet.’

Comfort food, in its truest sense, is a mnemonic device. It ties us to places, moments, and people. From the kopitiam uncle who already knew your order, to the kitchen where your mother cut fruit into bite-sized pieces, all of these memories season the food far more than spice or salt ever could. What we remember, ultimately, is not the dish itself but the sense of being known and nourished.

In Singapore and much of Asia, comfort food is steeped in communal memory. It lives in spaces defined not by extravagance but by connection and accessibility, such as the hawker centre or the shared table. Here, the comfort comes from familiarity and the act of eating together. This stands in contrast to Western notions of comfort food, which, as noted in works by culinary researchers like Krishnendu Ray and Carole Counihan, often lean toward indulgence and emotional gratification. From pies and casseroles to mashed potatoes topped with Mac and cheese, these foods are associated with pleasure, abundance, and escape from stress or loneliness.

Yet, despite these cultural differences, a universal thread runs through them all: comfort food is less about sustenance than sentiment. Rather than nourishing the body, these foods that we cling onto represent integral parts of our memory, grounding us to a past we continue to long for. Each bite carries the echo of familiarity, allowing us to temporarily return to moments when life felt gentler and whole.

This longing transcends superficial markers of class, culture, and circumstance. Regardless of who we are, the instinct to seek solace in the familiar is deeply human. For example, despite his access to lavish imperial cuisine, Emperor Hirohito was said to favour ochazuke (お茶漬け), a humble bowl of rice with green tea poured over it. As a modest, home-style dish often eaten when one feels unwell or weary, ochazuke represented a quiet embodiment of domestic simplicity and comfort amid the grandeur of the Chrysanthemum Throne. This sentiment finds a striking parallel in the case of Timothy McVeigh, the domestic terrorist who chose two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream as his final meal. His choice evokes the nostalgic comfort of innocence and simpler times, with ice cream embodying the small joys of childhood and standing in chilling contrast to the gravity of his crimes.

In a sense, comfort food is a quiet attempt to reconcile who we were with who we have become: a wistful reaching across time to the selves we once were.

When Comfort Becomes Deceit

The quiet absurdity of these cravings could sometimes reveal something even more precarious: that the pursuit of comfort, when allowed to slip beyond moderation, becomes entangled with the compulsion to suppress pain or memory. In reaching for the familiar, we may also be reaching to mute what aches beneath it, mistaking the sweetness of nostalgia for the promise of absolution. Yet, once the bowl is emptied, are we not left with the same hunger of the heart for a wholeness that memory cannot sustain?

Comfort food, then, becomes akin to a deceit that offers the illusion of safety. By allowing us to rehearse stability as the world (or our own conscience) quietly fractures, it tenderly tricks us into momentarily believing that care can be restored through ritual, and that chaos can be contained within something as simple as a meal. For instance, after a breakup, one may keep returning to the same bowl of instant noodles that they once shared with their partner. Through the simple ritual of boiling, stirring, and eating, they momentarily recreate the illusion of warmth and companionship, seeking comfort in the memories of a love that used to be. But when they come to their senses, they are ultimately still alone, remaining only in the echo of what is lost.

Therein lies the subtle danger of seeking refuge in familiar foods. We may confuse comfort with resolution and conflate temporary ease with genuine healing. The ritual of eating can numb as much as it soothes, tampering the sharp edges of grief or guilt without ever confronting them. When solace becomes a substitute for reckoning, comfort risks turning into complacency. This is a softness that protects us but also prevents us from truly mending what is broken.

What then? Should we renounce comfort food altogether?

No: the answer lies in moderation. It is natural (and even necessary) to reach for comfort when the world feels unsteady. But, while comfort food can be a gentle anchor that grounds us when emotions threaten to spill over, it gives us permission to rest rather than remain still. Its purpose should be to help us regain enough steadiness to take the next step, and gather enough strength to confront what we have been otherwise evading. As such, what matters is not the act of consumption itself, but how long we linger within its fleeting illusion.

A Tribute To The Bowl

Thinking again about that strange mixture of oats, fruit, cheese, egg, and sprinkles, a sense of aching tenderness fills the heart. There is something oh so endearing about how comfort can take such humble, even illogical forms, and how care sometimes disguises itself in the absurd. In that mismatched bowl lay a quiet defiance against the chaos of the world…an insistence that comfort, however fragile or temporary, could still be made with one’s own hands.

And though the world keeps changing, perhaps we return to these meals to remember who we were when someone cared enough to make them, and when love, however subtly expressed, was something we could taste.