A guest for breakfast

For the past two months, I have eaten Rice Krispies almost every morning. I love pouring my rice milk over my cereal and listening to the little grains snap-crackle-and-popping to their hearts' content like miniature fireworks with a delightfully mild flavor. I may be on the road toward addiction.

This morning, I delighted in my cereal as usual, but when I had half emptied my bowl, I noticed a black Krispie floating among its paler friends. Thinking it was nothing but a burnt grain of rice, I scooped up the black speck, intending to dispose of it in the sink. Upon scooping, however, the normal Krispies shifted to expose scraggly little legs attached to the offending speck.

Legs! Rice Krispies do not have legs, burnt or not. I dropped my spoon back in the bowl and spit out a mouthful of half-chewed cereal like any self-respecting pampered American would.

"EW!" I cried.

My mother, shocked at the scene, asked what was wrong. When I told her a bug was in my cereal, her shock turned to insensitive laughter. She redeemed herself, however, by calling the number on the Rice Krispie box and conveying my plight to a Kellogg's representative.

The man who answered the phone was much more sensitive than my mother.

"Oh no! Is your daughter okay?"

Yes, Kellogg's man. It was a narrow escape, but I survived.