Granola

I've decided to emulate Snowy's habit of writing longish blog posts with no real point because there is really nothing better to do. Today I'm going to discuss the merits of granola. Great stuff, that.
Perhaps I ought to explain. See, I grew up in a fairly hippie-ish town snuggled up to the Rocky Mountains. Its many marvellous attributes include gallons of fresh air, pretty mountains, a healthy athleticized culture, cheap pot-scented incense to pollute the fresh air, and granola. I have learned to love that stuff.
My dad buys the cheapest granola on offer, which varies from day to day. This means that I never know quite what to expect when I open the canister for an after-dinner snack: Ginger? Cherry Vanilla? Honey-Oat-Nut? Tropical Fruit? I do not lie, these are all potential granola species with the possible exception of tropical fruit, although that one thing did taste suspiciously of dried pineapple...
Anyway I suppose granola is my middle class American hippie-brat equivalent of paste circa 1976. Great story behind that:
(It's best in Paul's own words but I'm afraid I don't have it memorized. I do my best to duplicate. Try reading it in a "croaky South London brogue" for best results.)
So we'd been putting up posters for A Night of Treason, right, and we was all quite hungry. There was nothing to eat, really, an' it was too late to get anything. We'd been putting up posters with this flour-and-water paste and there was some left in the bucket. So I said to the guys "Hey, d'you think we could eat that?" Now Bernie had this saw, right, and it was Bernie's special saw, y'know, nobody touches the saw. So I took the saw and heated it up over our fire and made the paste into sort of a little cake, and it cooked. I had some and it wasn't too bad cos I was so hungry. But nobody else wanted any, for some reason.