I’m baking muffins. Sigh.
The timer is counting down the minutes until I can finally take them out of the oven. Twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes can seem like an awfully long time when you’re waiting for something very, very good. So I start the efficient flipping-open, flipping-shut of cupboard doors…returning soda and oats and wheat bran–each to its own nest. Then begins the clickity-clack business of gathering of bowls, teaspoons, measuring cups and cutting board… slipping them into the sink for a quick rinse. Twenty-two minutes.
Through the oven window, I see twelve little, pale, lumpy blobs of batter wilting. Each sagging against the sides of its assigned circle, succumbing to the heat of a 350 degree oven. They don’t look all that appealing right now. Even with the little bits of dried fruit–apricots, pears and berries of all kinds—winking at me from the nice, hot oven. And even, with the honey-colored crystals of the sugar-topping reflecting the light, I am not the least bit tempted to pull them out and say “good enough” at this point.
But at the halfway mark on the timer, something whispers to me as I stand at the dryer door folding clothes—just the faintest hint of the sweet fragrance rising from the baking muffins. I fold the last shirt. Still, I must wait.
I grasp the bright yellow handle of the broom and begin swishing the time along with the bristle-tips, teasing crumbs and flour from kitchen corners. Ha! I sweep two minutes up into the dustpan and let it slide down over egg shells and balled up paper towels in the trash. I put the broom and dustpan away.
