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Dr. Samuel Johnson's dictionary once summarily dismissed porridge, defining oats as a "grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people."

That was in the 1700s. These days, porridge is seen as more cool than gruel. Today is World Porridge Day — and to celebrate, London hosted its own porridge-making competition.

"Most people think of porridge as a winter dish, and a richer, heavier dish. But I do think it's coming back in vogue. In the last 10 years, it's risen in profile," says Toral Shah, a competitor at Friday morning's event.

i i

Judges taste test an entry in Friday's London Porridge Championships. Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship hide caption

itoggle caption Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

Judges taste test an entry in Friday's London Porridge Championships.

Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

Porridge is traditionally Scottish, with its heritage in the oaty diets of crofters, or tenant farmers, of the remote Highlands. I'm a Scotsman, and porridge formed an integral part of my childhood. Winter would mean one thing for certain: a steaming hot bowl of the stuff every morning, before trudging through the snow to school.

Porridge is such a subjective thing. Mine was made with milk, occasionally dried fruit, and either brown sugar or golden syrup drizzled in the shape of a smiley face. Just as long as you remember to stir clockwise — stirring counter-clockwise risks summoning the devil, according to Scottish superstition.

Nick Barnard is a porridge traditionalist, and a judge in Friday's London Porridge Championships. "I have a bowl of oatmeal, flavored with salt and cooked just right — piping hot," Barnard says, explaining his technique. "I dip my spoon into the porridge, then into cold, raw Guernsey cream. ... And there I am, absolutely loving this wonderful simplicity."

Barnard runs London-based Rude Health foods, which sponsored Friday's competition. He was crowned last year's champion in the "speciality" category — he made a fruity date dish — at the World Porridge Making Championships, held annually in Carrbridge in the Highlands of Scotland.

The 21st world championship was held last weekend. Entrants competed in two categories: traditional and speciality. The winner in the former category takes home the "Golden Spurtle," a Scottish kitchen tool for stirring porridge, thought to have originated six centuries ago. Made of wood, it looks like a tiny baseball bat. This year's traditional winner, Dr. Izhar Khan, a kidney specialist from Aberdeen, Scotland, told NPR he credited his victory to the spurtle he used, made by one of his patients.

i i

Personal fitness trainer Adam Stansbury won Friday's London competition with this chocolate and honey porridge. Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship hide caption

itoggle caption Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

Personal fitness trainer Adam Stansbury won Friday's London competition with this chocolate and honey porridge.

Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

As for the prize for the speciality dish, it was awarded jointly to Chris Young and Christine Conte. Chris had turned savoury, putting together a wild mushroom porridge risotto, while Christina — a Scottish-Italian food blogger based in Los Angeles — made a sticky toffee porridge.

The winner of today's London event — personal fitness trainer Adam Stansbury — wowed the judges with his chocolate and honey porridge.

Fellow competitor Toral Shah is another health-food fanatic; she runs London's Urban Kitchen. The porridge competition, she says, "is a fun thing to do, it's slightly competitive, and I really want to show people that you can make things taste brilliant, but they can be really healthy, too."

Indeed, porridge's widely acclaimed nutritional benefits — slow-releasing carbohydrates, energy-rich and easy to digest — are credited in part for its resurgent popularity in recent years.

Some even credit porridge with changing the course of Scottish history. In his book The Scottish: A Genetic Journey, author Alistair Moffat argues that soon after the Scots began farming cereals thousands of years ago, they learned how to turn that harvest into porridge — a discovery that fueled the nation's population growth. His argument? Feeding children porridge — a meal soft enough not to tax fragile baby teeth — meant that women could stop breastfeeding sooner, freeing them up to have more children.

i i

A simple take on Scotland's beloved dish. Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship hide caption

itoggle caption Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

A simple take on Scotland's beloved dish.

Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

Modern Britons clearly haven't forgotten their roots. According to research firm Mintel, almost half of 16- to 24-year-olds in the U.K. surveyed last year said they start the day with porridge. And fast-casual food chain Pret A Manger's sales of hot cereals doubled in the U.K. in 2013.

But the porridge love has spread well beyond the U.K. Kahn's competitors in last week's championships included the owner of a porridge bar in Copenhagen, as well as Sweden's Nordic porridge-making champion.

So what does Barnard look for in a great serving of porridge? The first word he uses is "moreish" — how nourishingly delicious is it? He wants imagination, and something that's pleasing. The quality of the ingredients is also important for him. "Could I eat a whole bowl of it, and will it sustain me?"

For Toral, it's the experimental possibilities that make porridge so exciting. Take her beetroot and apple version, with hints of ginger, cinnamon, vanilla yogurt and spiced granola. "And it's apple season," she adds. "Why would you not go seasonal?"

So, tell us, how do you eat yours?

Scottish food

porridge

Interview Highlights

On CBS trying to pull the All In The Family pilot right up to the last 20 minutes before it aired

There was one line [they were concerned about]. Archie and Edith come in from church when they're not expected, because Archie didn't care for the sermon and they left. And Mike and Gloria [their son-in-law and daughter], in the house alone have decided to go upstairs. ... And Archie comes in, sees what they were — knows, basically, what they were up to. And he says, "11 o'clock on a Sunday morning?"

They wanted that line out. And when I said, "But why?" "Well, because he's putting his finger on what they were doing." ... And I said, "Well, what's the problem with that? They're a married couple, nothing happened, the camera saw nothing." And they were still, "Can't do it, can't do it."

I just had a sense that if they won this battle, which was almost silly, that would dictate the nature of the show and I couldn't do that. So I said, "Well, clearly, that goes on the air or [you can] do the show without me."

And it went on the air, and believe me, no state seceded from the Union. America lived with it.

On why ABC and CBS had so much trepidation

Television

Norman Lear: 'Just Another Version Of You'

They were listening to an American bigot, they were listening to Archie Bunker. They had not heard those attitudes expressed, though you could hear them on a playground anywhere in America. It was no big deal. I'm saying that now with hindsight, because we went on the air and [during] the first show, because they were so fearful, they had hundreds of telephone operators, literally, ready to go to pick up the phone calls, the complaints. And it wasn't enough to trouble six operators. So America was living what they knew very well, because Archie Bunkers lived next door or right in the house with them.

On his idea for a TV show today

I would wish to get the generations below mine and mine — from 55 or 60 up — on television. I love Betty White, but she does not make a full demographic. Certainly they're the fastest-growing demographic, with the most expendable income. There's every reason in the world for a show to exist. [The show would be called] Guess Who Died?

The script exists if anybody's interested in putting it on.

Archie Bunker

ABC

TV

CBS

Dr. Samuel Johnson's dictionary once summarily dismissed porridge, defining oats as a "grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people."

That was in the 1700s. These days, porridge is seen as more cool than gruel. Today is World Porridge Day — and to celebrate, London hosted its own porridge-making competition.

"Most people think of porridge as a winter dish, and a richer, heavier dish. But I do think it's coming back in vogue. In the last 10 years, it's risen in profile," says Toral Shah, a competitor at Friday morning's event.

i i

Judges taste test an entry in Friday's London Porridge Championships. Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship hide caption

itoggle caption Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

Judges taste test an entry in Friday's London Porridge Championships.

Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

Porridge is traditionally Scottish, with its heritage in the oaty diets of crofters, or tenant farmers, of the remote Highlands. I'm a Scotsman, and porridge formed an integral part of my childhood. Winter would mean one thing for certain: a steaming hot bowl of the stuff every morning, before trudging through the snow to school.

Porridge is such a subjective thing. Mine was made with milk, occasionally dried fruit, and either brown sugar or golden syrup drizzled in the shape of a smiley face. Just as long as you remember to stir clockwise — stirring counter-clockwise risks summoning the devil, according to Scottish superstition.

Nick Barnard is a porridge traditionalist, and a judge in Friday's London Porridge Championships. "I have a bowl of oatmeal, flavored with salt and cooked just right — piping hot," Barnard says, explaining his technique. "I dip my spoon into the porridge, then into cold, raw Guernsey cream. ... And there I am, absolutely loving this wonderful simplicity."

Barnard runs London-based Rude Health foods, which sponsored Friday's competition. He was crowned last year's champion in the "speciality" category — he made a fruity date dish — at the World Porridge Making Championships, held annually in Carrbridge in the Highlands of Scotland.

The 21st world championship was held last weekend. Entrants competed in two categories: traditional and speciality. The winner in the former category takes home the "Golden Spurtle," a Scottish kitchen tool for stirring porridge, thought to have originated six centuries ago. Made of wood, it looks like a tiny baseball bat. This year's traditional winner, Dr. Izhar Khan, a kidney specialist from Aberdeen, Scotland, told NPR he credited his victory to the spurtle he used, made by one of his patients.

i i

Personal fitness trainer Adam Stansbury won Friday's London competition with this chocolate and honey porridge. Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship hide caption

itoggle caption Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

Personal fitness trainer Adam Stansbury won Friday's London competition with this chocolate and honey porridge.

Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

As for the prize for the speciality dish, it was awarded jointly to Chris Young and Christine Conte. Chris had turned savoury, putting together a wild mushroom porridge risotto, while Christina — a Scottish-Italian food blogger based in Los Angeles — made a sticky toffee porridge.

The winner of today's London event — personal fitness trainer Adam Stansbury — wowed the judges with his chocolate and honey porridge.

Fellow competitor Toral Shah is another health-food fanatic; she runs London's Urban Kitchen. The porridge competition, she says, "is a fun thing to do, it's slightly competitive, and I really want to show people that you can make things taste brilliant, but they can be really healthy, too."

Indeed, porridge's widely acclaimed nutritional benefits — slow-releasing carbohydrates, energy-rich and easy to digest — are credited in part for its resurgent popularity in recent years.

Some even credit porridge with changing the course of Scottish history. In his book The Scottish: A Genetic Journey, author Alistair Moffat argues that soon after the Scots began farming cereals thousands of years ago, they learned how to turn that harvest into porridge — a discovery that fueled the nation's population growth. His argument? Feeding children porridge — a meal soft enough not to tax fragile baby teeth — meant that women could stop breastfeeding sooner, freeing them up to have more children.

i i

A simple take on Scotland's beloved dish. Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship hide caption

itoggle caption Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

A simple take on Scotland's beloved dish.

Dai Williams/Courtesy of the National Porridge Championship

Modern Britons clearly haven't forgotten their roots. According to research firm Mintel, almost half of 16- to 24-year-olds in the U.K. surveyed last year said they start the day with porridge. And fast-casual food chain Pret A Manger's sales of hot cereals doubled in the U.K. in 2013.

But the porridge love has spread well beyond the U.K. Kahn's competitors in last week's championships included the owner of a porridge bar in Copenhagen, as well as Sweden's Nordic porridge-making champion.

So what does Barnard look for in a great serving of porridge? The first word he uses is "moreish" — how nourishingly delicious is it? He wants imagination, and something that's pleasing. The quality of the ingredients is also important for him. "Could I eat a whole bowl of it, and will it sustain me?"

For Toral, it's the experimental possibilities that make porridge so exciting. Take her beetroot and apple version, with hints of ginger, cinnamon, vanilla yogurt and spiced granola. "And it's apple season," she adds. "Why would you not go seasonal?"

So, tell us, how do you eat yours?

Scottish food

porridge

Luci Cook, 26, twists to look down over her left shoulder at the portrait of a young woman that covers the back of her calf. Dark hair and crows frame the eerie face of Chelsea Wolfe, Cook's favorite musician.

"I thought you'd want this one," Cook says, glancing at her close friend and tattoo artist Sheena Coffee, 29.

Cook is planning ahead, asking loved ones which of her 14 tattoos they'd want when she's gone. Cook has reason to think about death more than most people her age. She developed heart failure as a child, possibly from a virus, has had two heart transplants and needs a third.

Luci Cook doesn't want her tattoos to die with her. She's asking her friends and family which ones they' want to receive in the event that she dies before them. Courtesy Luci Cook hide caption

itoggle caption Courtesy Luci Cook

"It always feels like I'm living my life hurriedly," Cook says, "but then I never die, so it's constantly like ..." She pauses, searching for an image: "pressure-cooker time."

If doctors can't find the right heart match in time, Cook wants at least some of her tattoos to live on, preserving both her memory and the art. Yes, that means having someone cut the skin off her body, treat it and have it framed.

More people may think like Cook does about their tats than you'd imagine. With 38 percent of 18- to 29-year-old Americans now tatted, according to Pew, people are thinking differently about body art during life — and possibly after death.

For those who see their tattoos as art and part of their personality, a new tradition is emerging: Tattoos are joining the tradition of wisps of hair in a locket and urns full of ashes on the mantle.

Those who want the procedure will depend on pathologists, as Cook is; she's reviewing forms required by the Foundation for the Art and Science of Tattooing, based in Amsterdam. After an American pathologist removes the tattoo, that doctor will send the skin, frozen or packed in formaldehyde, to a lab in Europe. The foundation does not list the location, it says, to protect the pathologists from unwanted publicity.

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In the lab, pathologists will extract water and fat from the skin and replace it with a liquid polymer, typically silicone. In other words: "We make it into plastic," says Peter van der Helm, who started the foundation that would handle Cook's tattoos. "Your tattoo will be preserved forever and ever."

Van der Helm has 50 to 60 clients who have signed or say they plan to sign the forms. He launched the project almost one year ago, in November 2013. Everyone who has signed a contract is still alive.

For years, van der Helm, who is a tattoo artist, heard clients say with pride, "When I die, I want to be in a museum." Now, he says, they can be. Clients donate their tattoos to the foundation, which then loans them to family members. Some tattoos may be displayed by the foundation.

Some of these clients, as with Cook, share an attachment to their tattoos with a spouse, sibling or child, who's expected to outlive them. In some cases, the client's tattoo is the work of a famous artist and may have some monetary value.

Van der Helm is negotiating with an 80-year-old man who wants to preserve his full body skin. It would be very expensive, van der Helm acknowledges, but then "these people already spent $20,000, maybe $30,000 to get the tattoos, so saving it's a fraction of that cost."

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Preserving a tattoo "makes you kind of immortal, and I think many people like that," says foundation chair Judith van Bezu. The tattoo is "an art form that shouldn't just get lost when people die."

The minimum price of immortality is 300 euros, roughly $400, to preserve a 4-inch tattoo.

Van der Helm says he has the first commercial tattoo preservation business in the world. But cutting tattoos off dead bodies and saving them is nothing new, says Matthew Lodder, an art historian at the University of Essex who is finishing a book on the history of tattoos. "People have been doing it for hundreds if not thousands of years."

There are collections at museums in Krakow, Poland; Tokyo; and London. Most of these tattoos were removed without the prior consent of their owner, says Lodder. So van der Helm is taking tattoo preservation in a new direction with contracts, a modernized chemical process and clear ownership rules.

But Lodder doesn't think the idea will catch on widely. Blame the ick factor.

“ When Cook asks, "Which one of my tattoos do you want?" the reaction from those closest to her is mixed.

"There's still too much of a taboo against keeping bits of a dead body around," Lodder says. Sure, people keep the ashes from a cremation, "but they aren't visible and don't look like part of a dead body."

When Cook asks, "Which one of my tattoos do you want?" the reaction from those closest to her is mixed.

Her boyfriend wants the schooner, what he calls the Old Spice boat, on Cook's arm. It was her first tattoo, the only one she now regrets, but it makes the two of them laugh.

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Coffee, the tattoo artist, isn't sure she likes the idea of removing or receiving one of Cook's tattoos. They are "living art," she says, "where every curve of the muscle or dimple in the flesh is something you work into the design, it's just so intimate."

That intimacy may be lost when the tattoo is just a flat patch of skin, Coffee says.

But really, Coffee says, she doesn't want to think about the option. No matter what, "the idea of losing my friend stings."

Martha Bebinger covers health care for WBUR in Boston.

tattoos

death