Friday, January 7, 2011

Foodstuff Friday: muffins and the angels

Who knows why anything happens or doesn't. Sure, some things are certain, like if you drop a dime on the boss an angel develops a dangerous sounding cough; or rat out the mob you'll be dubbed "mousy" in Page Six. 

As to questions of greater import, however, like why I'm in bit of a winter blog-slump or if the sun at apogee is confident it's the best sun it can be, remain mysterious in an ageless, can't solve to got better things to worry about way.

Which brings us to muffins. A few years ago, I decided that in heaven there would be the best of ripe peaches, thin-crust pizza and muffins. I was more explicit in my reckoning with the Almighty, regarding mouth-wateringness, basil from hills of Tuscany, and moist though sugarlessness packed with fruit from the garden of good and evil.

It finally occurred to me that if heaven lives up to its rep, it will make available all foodstuffs according to our soon-to-be angelic desires. And if we lack desire, so be it. We won't miss it. Maybe.

A muffin is the baked equivalent of an apple. It is transportable, always tasty, a full meal if need be.  And really that's all I have to say, today, about muffins, about foodstuffs.  I was reminded of angels and Rilke a few minutes ago and so I post one of his poems, hot off the web, don't even know who translated. 

Ignorant Before the Heavens of my Life

Ignorant before the heavens of my life,
I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness
of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still.
As if I didn't exist. Do I have any
share in this? Have I somehow dispensed with
their pure effect? Does my blood's ebb and flow
change with their changes? Let me put aside
every desire, every relationship
except this one, so that my heart grows used to
its farthest spaces. Better that it live
fully aware, in the terror of its stars, than
as if protected, soothed by what is near.
Rainier Maria Rilke

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