Little Pleasures, part N

This is not about perfect or guilty pop songs, although it does have something in common with them -- the idea that some small well-crafted things expand to fill a much greater place in the sensorium than you might imagine.

My favorite T-shirt.

Mint juleps on derby day.

"The Thrill is Gone" suddenly coming out of a radio on an Interstate in the middle of Wyoming in the dead of night while you're driving cross-country alone.

An extra hour of sleep on the coldest morning of the year.

And the specific item celebrated here: A freshly cooked batch of Irish Oatmeal, a dash of brown sugar, some chopped walnuts, and chopped dried apricots and golden raisins rehydrated in my favorite Bourbon.

Note: the quality of the ingredients makes all the difference. Fussy though it may be, Irish Oatmeal is a universe apart from the stuff I grew up with, and the nuts, fruit, and bourbon also figure heavily in making this a Platonic breakfast of which all other breakfasts are mere shadows.