Surviving the Hunt … and Living to See Another Bowl

Second to consuming it, the thing I like most about cereal is shopping for it. It’s the thrill of the hunt, I suppose – a primal connection to my distant ancestors, who had to track and kill cereal in the wild every morning. I wish I could experience one of those aboriginal hunts, just to invigorate my senses: Swarms of Frosted Cheerios (thanks, Urban Dictionary!) bounding in peril across the African savannah; a clan of tall, lanky Seltenriches in hot pursuit, wearing only boxer shorts; back at camp, bowls made of wildebeest skulls, filled to the brim with the coldest goat’s milk. Forgive me if I’m romanticizing or flubbing the details; they may have in fact been antelope skulls. I am simply not sure. The point is that my weekly quest for delicious cereals at fair prices is not merely a force of habit. It’s genetic.

Some people, when faced with the modern supermarket’s sprawling cereal aisle, may be overcome by options, paralyzed by fear of failure. Make a mistake here and you’ll meet it face-to-face in the cupboard every morning for a week. I sometimes see such people floundering there in the store, pacing from the Froot Loops to the granola and back again, picking up boxes and putting them back, eyeing price tags and nutrition labels. There is panic in their eyes. I can’t help but feel for them.

But only for a moment. There is work to do. Queries fire like synapses in my mind: What am I out of at home? What haven’t I bought in a while? What do I feel like eating right now? What kind of variety, healthiness (or lack thereof), and mixing potential can I achieve? And, finally, what the hell is on sale? These five factors, arranged unconsciously via a complex algorithm within my cereal-bellum, will determine what two or three or even four boxes will escape their earthly shelving today in my warm embrace, or (less dramatically) at the bottom of the shopping cart.

Don't mind saying it: I typically let sale prices play a significant role in my decision. The randomness injects a little excitement into my routine. It’s like shopping at a flea market, four beers deep, with fifty bucks in singles in my pocket. Who knows what I’ll bring home? Rarely do I leave my comfort zone of ten or so regular cereals, but every now and then I’ll bring home a box of something absurd like Smorz Cereal. And my life is all the better for it. If only my ancestors could see me now.