The life of a muffinaholic
Of all the things one can be addicted to, I suppose my obsession is relatively benign. Yes, I am aware that’s what all addicts say, but in my case it’s true. So, let’s just name it; I am a muffinaholic.
If there was a Muffinaholics Anonymous, I would be at every meeting. I can just see myself, “Hi, my name is Steve, and I am a muffinaholic.”
“I have been sober for... wait, I’m not sober.”
My rap sheet would be long. Driving under the influence of muffins – guilty. Possession with intent to consume – oh yeah. Trafficking in muffin paraphernalia – yup.
Like Ramblin’ Bob, if munching muffins was illegal I would be in the jailhouse now. Life without parole would surely be my fate.
Whenever Jana and I travel I am constantly on the lookout for bakeries or restaurants specializing in muffins. Clearly, I consume more than anyone else in the United States of America, possibly the world.
As a result, early in our relationship Jana began referring to me as, “The Muffin Man.” Our freezer is chock-full of them: double chocolate, banana-nut, chocolate chip pumpkin, blueberry, zucchini....
You name it, I got it, except for bran, which I despise. My biggest fear, aside from dying on a frozen highway, is that I will run out of muffins and have to go to rehab.
When Duke decided to go live in Heaven, Momma Rose had his remains cremated and placed on the mantle, awaiting their reunion.
That started me thinking about my own passing. Several years ago, I visited a King Tut exhibition in Las Vegas and noted ancient Egyptians regularly put food in burials so the deceased would have something to eat in the next world.
King Tut, for example, had 48 wooden cases of beef and poultry with him when they sealed his burial chamber. There were also well over 100 baskets of wheat, barley, bread, figs, dates, melons, and other plant-based foods.
As far as I know, however, no muffins were found in the crypt. When death arrived, Egyptian pharaohs were prepared, having stocked their tombs with everything they needed or might want during the afterlife.
As a result of my dad moving on to the next realm and my extensive knowledge of Egyptian funeral practices, I began informing Jana, Kira and Grange, that, when I go, they can do whatever they want with my leftovers.
I have only one request, demand, requirement. They can burn me, bury me, compost me, bake me into a cake, or just plant me under the old cottonwood tree out back, I don’t care.
The only thing I ask is they ensure there are muffins included to help me get through my journey to the afterworld. And, I have specified, they can’t be of the supermarket variety.
No sir, when I exit this realm, I want the very best. Otherwise, as my family is aware, there is significant risk of me returning to let them know I am dissatisfied with the selection.
While I am no pharaoh, I am the self-proclaimed Muffin King.
Last week one of our long-time customers rambled into Twin Rocks and struck up a conversation. To ensure his privacy, we will call him Bob.
Anyway, Bob’s dad had passed on about a year ago and Bob had his pop cremated. As a result of our conversation, I informed Bob of my desire to have muffins included in whatever depository event that occurs after I expire.
“Hmm,” Bob said, apparently approving of the plan, and considering his own demise. At that point he reached into the pocket of his worn cargo shorts and retrieved what appeared to be a glass vial containing about six ounces of grey matter.
“Dad,” he declared.
“What?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said, “that’s my dad in there.”
Bob went on to explain that he took Dad with him everywhere. He said his father was an avid scoutmaster and had spent most of his adult life camping, hiking, cooking out, and anything else he could do to help young men develop into quality adults.
In fact, Bob was himself an Eagle Scout as a result of his dad’s commitment to scouting. So, whenever Bob ran across a camp with a flagpole, he sprinkled a little of Dad’s ashes around the base in hopes the scouts would get Dad on their hiking boots and take him for a walk.
Bob had even gone to Yellowstone National Park and found a herd of bison ambling down a well-worn trail.
Bob got far enough in front of the gang to be safe and sprinkled a big dollop of Dad on the path.
As the animals trekked by, Dad intermingled with the soil on their hooves and went for a stroll through the park. Bob said when the jar gets low, he replenishes it from Dad’s cremation urn.
Bob thought by the time he was finished sprinkling Dad around, Dad would have traveled thousands of miles and seen many new sights.
As Bob walked down the trading post stairs to the gravel parking lot, I noticed him sprinkle a little of Dad on the steps.
Apparently, Dad needed additional trading post time.