Muffin Tin

Lived in Massachusetts after college, still drive around with California plates, but feel free to call my Rhode Island number. Somewhere, Connecticut commonly guessed as my hometown, while all along I wished I lived in Italy. Maybe one day I’ll be able to walk into a bank and deposit checks through the atm, instead I avoid the smiling welcomer offering to help me out with this convenient transaction. No really, I’ve tried and it won’t work, one account opened this state, the other opened in another and there is no peanut butter and jelly relationship between the two.

However, I take pride in these odd difficulties, the visible trail, all the questions of why, and the taunting during the winter when people read my plates. “Colder here isn’t it?” Oh my neighbor thinks he’s so clever. No shit it’s colder. Dig out my car and I’ll bring you back some sunshine from my golden state. Well, if I ever get there.

Preparation for this trip started almost a year ago with my mind still moving at a college pace and the continuation of my work coming into question every forty five to ninety days. I made the choice to pursue month-to-month furnished rooms in houses that wished they were museums, sublets off craigslist with lounge chairs in the kitchen and family friend’s empty nests an hour from work instead of a year lease. I would admire Anthropologie or Ikea furniture knowing it would not be. Walk into Williams-Sonoma to evaluate the shine of cooking equipment while happening upon a free cookie and shot of apple cider. Yet, excitement surged when finding a storage bin to replace my cardboard box and discovering the perfectly sized garment bags. Satisfaction stemmed not from where I lived, but how well I could leave. 

It became an identity and shrug of the shoulders when mentioning it to others. Just the way it is. Distanced myself a little, worrying about making friends I could not keep. But a year passed and still here. After nine months I bought my first major baking item, a muffin tin.