Friday, September 12, 2014


Lying on a blanket with Adelaide a month or so ago, I stick my feet up in the air, showing her my toes, tickling hers, hoping she’ll make the connection. She can’t find her feet, but I can find mine, and I realize two things: 1) There is a time in our lives when we do not yet realize we have feet (what other secrets is the universe hiding from us?), and 2) I have chocolate on my left foot.

How does one get chocolate on her left foot? I do not know exactly how, but I know who, and her name is Muffin.

The muffins were Grammy’s, and then they were Mom’s, and now they are mine. Mom made them on Saturday mornings. They were hot, and I would watch the butter melt. This is the taste of Saturday.

Now I have my own house, and I have them on hand not just Saturdays, but all days. Tonight they lured me out of bed.

“We are your muffins,” they beckoned. “Come visit with us.”

They are my muffins.

Last week, Husband says, “You have chocolate on your face.”

“I made muffins,” I say.

“Where are they?” says he.

“They are on my face and on my foot and in my heart.” (They are also on the leopard couch pillow.)

My muffins make me poetic.

Chocolate muffins
Perfect with a glass of milk
You are my dream food

Muffin calls my name
Taunts me like a game
This sleepy head
Is out of bed
Could I be insane?

Adelaide has an exersaucer, and she is content in this exersaucer for one minute less than it takes to make my muffins. I frantically scoop that batter into the foil tins and say, “Hold on, baby girl! Hold on!” Eventually I have to choose between my muffins and my baby, and don’t worry, I always pick the baby. But now I outsmart my baby and pre-make part of the muffin mix ahead of time, so I can have my baby cakes and eat muffins, too. Someday I will make them for her on Saturday mornings, and she will watch the butter melt, and she will know life is good. She already smacks her lips when she sees them, but she can’t have them because muffins are not typically recommended for 5 month olds. “Maybe at 6 months?” Husband says. He likes the muffins, too. “Sweet lamb,” I say gently, “it’s a good thing you’re so pretty.”

The muffins live on my counter, clothed in gleaming silver wrapping. They are beautiful, and they are mine. Sometimes they turn out kind of weird, but I never care. They are my muffins, and I love them even when they are having an off day. And Adelaide and pretty pretty Husband, I love you when you are being kind of weird and having an off day.

These muffins are made with gluten and redemption. Because even if the house is a mess, when there are muffins on the counter, the muffins remind me that I am domesticated and successful and productive and poetic and hungry. And that I love my messy house and my Grammy/Mom/Me muffin recipe and this baby that asks to be held in the middle of it all.

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