Baking muffins at midnight under the watchful eye of Mr. Moon

I’m scattering lemon seeds into the new year.

While most will be randomly sowed I would like one package to be personally delivered. To that end I am enlisting the help of a man I can always count on. He lives on the moon and he always seems to find me when I need him.

A few nights ago I was in the kitchen around midnight baking blueberry muffins. As often happens I get a spurt of energy late at night, which is when I do most of my writing. But on this night I was needing to do something else with my energy. If you have never baked at midnight you may not have experienced the reshaping of your kitchen as one day ends by giving birth to another.

For me this seems to enhance form and color. Older white walls start to look like they have been taking youth enhancing gummies and the white gleams like a tooth paste advertisement. The kitchen walls take on a newly painted countenance, as pristine as the day I moved into the house 40 some years ago. Fascinated by this confluence of time and color, it is not uncommon for me to disassociate from the kitchen into a whole other time frame.

Apparently this is what happened a few nights ago when I put my oven-mitted hands into the oven to remove the muffin tin as the timer instructed me to do. Bulky from the mitts, my hands seemed to lose touch with reality and flip the tin up into the air where it turned itself over depositing blueberry smudges on the oak floor before landing on my left forearm.

“How could this happen?” I asked the empty room in exasperation. It was time for quick action but I just stood there staring at my toothpaste white walls.

“Ice it” a voice commanded from the ledge outside the garden window where Mr. Moon was parking his full round self. With my good arm I pulled open the freezer at the bottom of the fridge and  grabbed some ice cubes which I gently applied to the wound now turning not a particularly pleasant shade of bright pink.

“I’m so glad to see you,” I sighed, as I reached for the kettle to make tea. “I think you should turn off the oven and stay away from the stove for the rest of the night,” he responded in a firm, but kind tone.

“I need your help with something,” I began.

Refreshing my ice, I explained that I wanted to send lemon seeds to a special friend in Texas who loves the lemons from my tree. He flashed his half moon smile, nodded a yes and started his ascent.

Email patriciabunin@sbcglobal.net. Follow her on X @patriciabunin and Patriciabunin.com