Hattie's Muffins

Ain't got no subtitle

Dear Friend,

This story is lightly based on the inspiration gained during a tough day and a hankering for muffins.

Here’s the podcast, complete with the appropriate southern accent.

And here’s the text with the appropriate illustrations:

Most dangerous things begin as accidents, like nuclear fission and bangs. That’s how the muffins started.

Hattie was the kind of woman who always looked like she’d just finished stackin’ chairs after a church-basement meetin’ nobody really wanted to attend. She lived alone with a spider plant named Bill and cookbooks that promised “simple joy” but involved complicated grocery lists.

With the first batch of blueberry muffins, she was just aim-in’ for something “gee whiz” worthy, but she was out of blueberries, so she used diced peaches; out of cinnamon, so she used cardamom out of patience, so she added extra vanilla.

They came out lookin’ like regular peach muffins. She carried a couple over to her neighbor Martin, whose last recorded smile was during the Obama administration. He took one bite and his shoulders dropped a full inch.

“This is… nice,” he said, like the word was rusty.

By the third bite, he was confessin’ his divorce, his fear of flyin’, and the time he peed his pants durin’ a fire drill in third grade. “But that was fine,” he said. “’Cuz they blamed the sprinkler system, so no one knew.”

In our town, news is usually limited to “they moved the cereal to aisle 5,” so the report that “Hattie’s muffins mollified Martin,” spread fast. Soon people started showin’ up with what they called “situations,” breakups, midlife crises, and children who talked like tiny hostage-takers.

Hattie listened and baked: “Might Still Work Out” banana nut, “He Wasn’t That Great Anyway” cranberry orange, “Sit down and be quiet” lemon poppyseed. People ate, and something in them relaxed.

Elise, the yoga teacher started calling Hattie “a healing portal,” which is the kind of phrase that makes regular people want to run into oncoming traffic. The town newsletter ran her picture with the caption:
MUFFINS THAT MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER

“It’s just butter and fruit, made while singin’ off key,” she insisted. But folks didn’t hear “just muffins.” They heard, “she can fix me.” Strangers began knocking, holding empty containers with full expectations.

One Sunday, a woman named Gwen arrived. “My husband left, my kids blame me, and my mama sends sunsets with Bible passages on ‘em. I don’t wanna feel better. I wanna feel… somethin’ else.”

Hattie reached for the flour, then stopped.

“I’m out of miracles.”

They sat in the sugar-scented quiet. “What if I make you a muffin that doesn’t promise anything? Just keeps you company while you feel awful. A witness muffin.”

Gwen frowned. “Terrible branding.”

“Yep,” Hattie said.

She baked a plain one: no fruit, no frosting, no cardamom. They ate them right out of the oven.

“Do you feel something now?” Hattie asked.

“My tongue’s burnt,” Gwen said. “But …less alone.”

“Well, that’s something,” Hattie said.

The next day, a sign appeared on her door:
MUFFINS FOR SALE -HAPPINESS NOT GUARANTEED -COMPANY LIKELY

Hattie didn’t want to fix anyone no more. But she darn made sure nobody in that town had to fall apart alone … or on an empty stomach .

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Sometimes things don’t change immediately. It’s okay just to sit with it, and serve it a peach muffin.

Best,

Jill

Next Zoom creativity workshop for paid subscribers is Thursday, April 23 at noon pacific/ 3 eastern. Link will be posted and sent soon.