of muffins and human behavior

Sometimes, in the midst of existential questioning, I stumble upon the supposition that perhaps my entire reason for being is for the sole purpose of seeking out muffin perfection.

You see, I really love muffins. Ridiculously so. But I should amend that by saying that I don’t love all muffins — in fact, I don’t even like most muffins (I think it bears mentioning at this point that I am not speaking in metaphor at all. I speak quite literally of baked goods.). Those greasy balls of refined hydrogenated corn and petroleum product you find wrapped in plastic in the gas station? No. Those sugary bombs in the Starbucks display case waiting to congeal in a heap in your unfortunate stomach where they may lie for days while your body tries to figure out what to do with them? No. And it’s not just corporate muffins that I eschew — most homebaked ones resemble far too much a dessert rather than a breakfast item for my taste as well (anything with crumbly topping, chocolate chips, or any sort of glaze…no.)  No, friends, I am the product of a childhood catered by my mother’s super-hippie gastronomical bent and so the muffin for me most decidedly is bran.

Dark, lusty, forbidding bran. Bran, the mariah, cast from wheat in the refining process only to be relegated to the dowdy health food category, referred to in hushed tones, looked upon by many as nothing more than a medicinal (OK, I’ll just come out and say laxative) product, viewed in the same light as cod liver oil. But those who know understand that, as a muffin-building material, bran is king. Where white flour is plywood, bran is steel. Strong enough to support the weightiest of interiors (engorged raisins! cavalcades of nuts!), yet light enough to not require an abundance in order to maintain structural integrity (notice how sturdy the bran muffin is, not given to crumbling).

Now, I’ve discovered quite a few muffins that have made me happy across the states in which I’ve lived and traveled, which I could list at length, but won’t, save for mentioning two notables that I miss. In Santa Fe, there’s the Chocolate Maven’s Lowfat Blueberry Bran. Moist interior, large enough to last several meals (when I living there and didn’t have enough money to buy food because…well, because I was living in Santa Fe…this became a matter of utmost importance) and stuffed with fat blueberries, it does the job nicely. It’s best enjoyed en route from Santa Fe to Taos via the twisty low road along the Embudo river. And you may as well stop at one of those fruit stands and get yourself some chile and a peach. Another I discovered at Shades Cafe, a funky little dive hiding in the decidedly non-funky, disgustingly touristy ski town of Jackson Hole. This muffin, studded with sunflower seeds and baked to near-burnt crispness, can be had with a side of steamed eggs (cooked miraculously with a milk frother!) and eaten on the patio amongst the crowd of disaffected ski bum hipster trustafarians who reside in the neighborhood.

You see, in searching for the perfect bran muffin, one must consider so much more than simply the baked good itself.

Which brings me to the case in point. I have been in Michigan for seven months now (and six days) and it took me that long to discover it here (the search was narrowed, I’d like to add, by my conversion to veganism a month ago). This morning I was cruising around Royal Oak (enveloped by the soothing sounds of the Yes album) looking for Wi-Fi, and, tiring of Caribou, discovered a narrow little tin-ceilinged place called the Bean & Leaf Cafe. The hallway I entered through was covered with local photography, the adept and engaging man behind the counter had intricate tattoo sleeves and a way with the milk frother, and the baked goods case contained a muffin not only bran, not only vegan, but from none other than local Avalon Bakery. It was the color of dark, glistening molasses, studded with ruby cranberries, sporting a big, square top (that could easily be detached and enjoyed alone) and offered up warm.

I’m sitting in the sun now with a plate bearing scant crumbs and an empty paper coffee cup.

Last night I had a long talk with an old friend from New Mexico (a person who once showed up at my house bearing homemade lavender ice cream) who’s also recently endured heartbreak and it made me feel so alright, like it’s nothing more than another badge on my Girl Scout sash. I’m in love with the feeling brought on by the realization that I am an indelible part of the human race, a living, breathing testament to the wonder of human behavior (the Bjork song as well as the condition).

Behind the counter they’re discussing dating boys in bands and lunch (I’ve been there and done that and prefer breakfast to both) my signal that I should probably be on my way.

noxious nostalgia and boots

Oh, nostalgia, it hits me like a curtain of paint-thinner fumes sometimes, filling my addled little noggin with visions of times past, entities unrecoverable, friendships faded, loves abandoned, opportunities supposedly wasted. Nostalgia is that soccer field where there now exists a subdivision and the old man in the dingy trucker hat counting his pennies and lamenting “back when they were worth somethin’…”

“Nostalgia is carcinogenic,” a friend of mine used to say.

I’m beginning to believe him. If not entirely toxic, I have found nostalgia of late to at least qualify as an allergen. I’m convinced that it’s not the pollen in the air that makes me sneezy and chest-cleary, it’s the musty green mildew that’s grown on all the damp relics of the past I’ve kept in my attic for so many years, “just in case I need them someday.” I’ve been up there purging junk for a while now, and with all the meaningless files, outgrown clothes, and detritus taken to the dump my mental stash has dwindled down to those items previously designated as heirlooms.

What exactly is of value and what isn’t? If I throw this out, will I live to regret it? Or does it simply hold me back from growing into the woman I want to be? Moreover, if I throw this out, what will go in its place?

I once had this pair of leather boots that I bought at my favorite thrift store in Driggs, Idaho (the See ‘n’ Save). They were knee-high, leather, slouchy tan calf hide and they made me feel like a cowgirl Superwoman. In the scurrying to clean out the ski bum wreck my friends and I resided in, I mistakenly sent them back to the thrift store along with a bunch of crap I never wore and moved to New Mexico a week later only to regret for the two years I lived there those boots I left in Idaho. I inhabited every thrift store from Santa Fe to Taos to Albuquerque looking for a replacement and came up with a lot of also-rans but not quite the real thing.

Well, the oscillating fan of fate found me back in Driggs, Idaho (a place where I never could seem to leave, really. I’m not fully convinced even now that I’ve left) and, one afternoon at the thrift shop, wouldn’t you know it, there were my boots. Unchanged, waiting for me all that time. (I still have them and I wear them as often as is humanly possible, though they are due for a resoling. I even wore them in a wedding recently when I lost my heels).

I’m hoping that life operates rather like the dynamics of old leather boots and thrift stores. I sinverely hope that the objects and people and experiences and loves of real value, if discarded accidentally or needfully, can be recovered at some date in the future at the See ‘n’ Save. That’s the faith I’m operating on right now.

Alright, enough of this metaphorical rambling. The shoe reference, by the way, is a bit of a shout-out. Thanks for the inspiration, you know who you are.

 

dispatches from caribou

I’m in a big black pleather chair at the Caribou Coffee in downtown Royal Oak, a comfy and convivial chain coffee place. I used to hate this place based strictly on aesthetics,  but it has begun to grown on me in light of the fact that, although the coffee is laughably awful (their bread and butter, I gather from the marketing, is those American favorite frozen sugar ice cream coffee concoctions and not actual coffee) they do still offer free Wi-Fi, unlike stingy Starbucks and their pay-per-use bullshit.

Caribou occupies the corner of Main and something street here in Royal Oak, offering one a gracious fishbowl view of the varied population, which consists mainly of cigarette hipsters on one side and moms with baby stollers and tots on the other (ha! so it stands to reason that I should be somewhere in the middle here). Inside, it is all steamed milk and students hunched over homework and businessmen engaged in well-choreographed conversations (one of which I am in close enough proximity to hear, much to  my delight)["do you want me to send him an invitation to the golf outing?"] and sleeping semi-vagrants and androgynous hipsters operating the ever-churning blenders, all amidst the decor which resembles in so many ways (the packed-dirt colored carpet! the musty unoperational fireplace! the mismatched tables and chairs and confused blend of decorating styles!) someone’s family cabin Up North.

Which can be nice, really.

Next door exists this little boutique called Paris, of which I have recently become enamored. Case upon overstuffed, glittering case of vintage jewelry; sweet cocktail dresses; Matt + Nat bags (they’re vegan!) ["they have a love/hate relationship with the product...."] and a back room full of old and lovely dresses, the kind I can spend hours ogling. And the nice ladies who there are lovely and dropped everything to try to dig up something monogrammed for me (I am in love with mongrams lately).

Every so often I think of that song when I feel myself beginning to like Michigan — “It’s a not-so-bad, it’s a nice-a place. Ah, shut uppa yo face.”

 A big gray cat named Slim has adopted me, slinking her way into my house, plopping herself upon my bed and taking up residence.

A distinguished man chats in Italian two tables away from me.

A woman comes in with twins in a stoller and a tot perched precariously on top.

I think I’m going to sign up for the San Francisco marathon.

I’ve been vegan for precisely one month.

I talked to the ex last night, and it felt alright, like an amicable chat with a distant family member.

I think that’s about all the news I can muster.

mama’s day

On Mother’s day we drove through old neighborhoods in Birmingham ogling Tudors and pink dogwoods and bought giant marigolds in a chilling drizzle (I had planned a sunny day) and ate lunch at Papa Joe’s (she had the mushroom bisque, it was marsala-laced, deeply mushroomy and probably not vegan in any way shape or form but I tasted it regardless) and brought home persimmon-colored roses for Grandma, and a cupcake.

For a long time I had forgotten what it was like to be my mother’s daughter and I am so thankful to have had the opportunity to remember.