(Skinny!) Oatmeal Cookie Smoothie

The world broke on a Thursday.

Megan called me from the bathroom. Her voice was different — flat, controlled, the voice of someone holding something together that has already come apart. She said, "Jake, I'm bleeding."

Nine weeks. We were nine weeks. We were almost to the end of the first trimester. We were five days from telling our parents. Five days. I had been planning how to tell Tom — casually, maybe during a Packers game, "Hey Dad, you're going to be a grandpa." Five days.

I drove her to the hospital. I drove carefully. I drove like the car was made of glass. She sat in the passenger seat with her hand on her stomach and her eyes closed and she didn't say anything and I didn't say anything because there was nothing to say that wouldn't make it worse.

The doctor confirmed it at the hospital. The ultrasound showed what we already knew. No heartbeat. The flicker was gone. The tiny drum that I heard three weeks ago — the one that changed everything — was silent.

Megan didn't cry at the hospital. She nodded. She thanked the doctor. She held my hand and we walked to the car and she sat in the passenger seat and she didn't cry and I didn't cry and we drove home in silence and the silence was the loudest thing I've ever heard.

We hadn't told anyone she was pregnant. Which means we can't tell anyone she isn't. The loss is ours alone. The grief is private and boundless and there is no casserole coming, no phone calls, no comfort from the outside. Just us. In the apartment. In the quiet. With the empty second bedroom and the recipe cards on the shelf and the ghost of a heartbeat that was and isn't.

I didn't cook that night. I couldn't. Megan didn't eat. We lay on the couch and held each other and the apartment was dark and the city was dark and everything was dark.

We didn’t eat that night, and we barely ate the next day either. But on the third morning I woke up before Megan and stood in the kitchen in the gray light and knew I had to do something — not cook, I couldn’t cook, couldn’t stand over a flame and make something whole out of raw pieces — but something. I remembered this smoothie from a recipe card on the shelf, the one with oats and cinnamon, the one that tastes like a cookie someone’s grandmother made. It asked almost nothing of me. I just put things in a blender. I made two. I brought one to Megan and set it on the nightstand without saying a word, and she drank it, and that felt like enough.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 5 minutes | Servings: 1

Ingredients

1/2 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
1 medium ripe banana, frozen
3/4 cup unsweetened almond milk (or milk of choice)
1/2 cup plain nonfat Greek yogurt
1 tablespoon honey or pure maple syrup
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Pinch of ground nutmeg
4–5 ice cubes

Instructions

Soften the oats. Add the rolled oats to the blender first and pulse a few times to break them down slightly. This helps avoid a gritty texture in the finished smoothie.
Add remaining ingredients. Add the frozen banana, almond milk, Greek yogurt, honey, cinnamon, vanilla, nutmeg, and ice cubes to the blender.
Blend until smooth. Blend on high for 45–60 seconds until completely smooth and creamy. If the smoothie is too thick, add a splash more almond milk and blend again briefly.
Taste and adjust. Taste for sweetness and spice. Add a touch more honey or cinnamon if desired, then blend for another 10 seconds.
Serve immediately. Pour into a tall glass and drink right away for the best texture. It tastes like an oatmeal cookie in a glass.

Nutrition (per serving)

(Skinny!) Oatmeal Cookie Smoothie — When You Can’t Cook But Still Have to Eat