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What lurks, half-baked, in the margins of taste?
The muffin rises. Each crease a whisper: flour, butter, dusk of eggs—convergence and separation.
Listen. If you have the courage, to let the silences sing. To let the morning stretch. Occasionally, the muffin hints its hidden heart, beneath a crust whispering of distant lands.
Beyond sweetness, beyond grain, there’s a calling. Perhaps a shadow among spatulas, lost in zest. Perchance, a romance between heat and memory, binding in a pact of muffled murmurs.
Baker's Mexican Wave | Crumb Congregate | An Unveiled Butter