If I were to choose, I’d be a blueberry muffin.
Not one of those 99 cent, deli-on-the-corner, grease bomb things, the kind even a drill and a prayer wouldn’t guarantee you’d find more than a streak of blue in. Not one of those muffins that leaves a film on the roof of your mouth, that you knew was a few-days-too-old before you bit into it, that makes the cashier squint at you for ordering, that you knew you should never have gone for to begin with but desperation led you to choose.
If I were to choose, I’d be a blueberry muffin like mom made on Sundays, a little something sweet for after that bacon-mushroom-cheddar casserole, the homemade sausage patties with just enough red pepper flakes to remind you that awake is better than asleep, and pancakes piled high next to that maple leaf bottle she picked up when she and dad did an overnight in Vermont to be anywhere but here (keeping it simple). I’d be a muffin that’s full like the cup of OJ mom poured before you sat down; that’s warm, with fat chunks of crystal sugar tickling the top of it then your tongue; that’s crunchy and soft and buttery as you bite, with almost as many blueberries as love baked in.
Those are the kinds of muffins that make people line up down Bleecker; the kind that sell out before you make it to the door; that you pay five bucks for and wonder if it was worth it—until the first blissful bit barely touches your lips; the kind you know is worth it before you even pick it up. And when you’re done, you can’t help but glance over and over again at your plate and the table on either side, because you can never be too sure you haven’t left a crumb behind (all the time hoping that you did: a little something more).
I’d want to be one of those blueberry muffins that smells like childhood, like waking up believing the dream isn’t over, like safety and infinity and naiveté as sweet as the crumble on top that makes the whole damn thing, that leaves nothing but the taste of home when you’re through.