Observe. It is the box. Within this cardboard creation lies the secrets of cooking- the wondrous ingredients of unparalleled food. Behold. It contains baking mix, strudel, cinnamon swirl mix, and a crowning glory of glaze. This is the Cinnabon Muffin Make-Them-At-Home! Box of Mixes.

            Now to make these little beauties is not hard. Only follow these five easy and highly effective steps. They are presented in sequential order. Take note that these steps may differ slightly from those found on the back of the box. However, these steps are the result of my personal experience.

            Step 1- Read the recipe on the back on the box. Decide you need the baking mix. Reach into the box. Select the first random packet you can grasp. Empty into a large mixing bowl. Add milk and butter; mix until incorporated (batter will be lumpy). Afterwards, contemplate how thin and soupy the batter looks. Deduct that it is certainly not possible to make eighteen muffins out of this watery little puddle.

            Step 2- Re-read the recipe. Decide that you probably did it right. Search in the box for the cinnamon swirl mix. Pull it out and realize with a shock of horror that it looks just like the “baking mix” that you just put into the bowl. Dump out the contents of the box onto the counter. Find the real baking mix at the bottom. Add the baking mix to the soup you created, mix well.

            Step 3- Add cinnamon swirl mix. Stir seven times- do not incorporate. Study the thick dough you just made. Add a leetle bit of water to thin it out- mix in while desperately trying to not incorporate the cinnamon swirl mix too much. Be mildly surprised that the batter actually looks ok.

            Step 4- Pour the batter into the liberally greased muffin cups. Hunt through the pile of mix packets to find the strudel topping. Fail in finding it. Realize that you original hypothesis has been disproved. You didn’t put in an extra pack of course, decently thick cinnamon mix instead of the baking mix. You put in the thin, crumbly strudel. That accounts for the soup at the beginning of the process. Decide and realize that the only thing to do is leave the muffins as they are, sans strudel on the top.

            Step 5- Put the muffins into the oven, preheated to 350°.  Bake for 20-25 minutes or until the muffin tops resemble volcanoes with lava running profusely out of them. Remove from oven, let cool until your patience evaporates. Remove from muffin pan. Admire the mushroom-cloud shape. Drizzle with glaze. Enjoy!*

*Enjoyment may be hampered by the contemplation of how many calories and chemicals you are consuming.

I cannot forget.

If I ever forgot, I

would die. If I

forgot, there would

be no life.

I would live life

in the shadow of

the stars, thinking

I was in the light.

And that is the

same as death. Living

coldness is only

a walking ghost.

I must not forget

tears. Crying. Washing

away all the blocked-

up pain.

I must know music,

songs that pulse the

earth and change my

soul.

The moon should always

be mine. I can hold

it, watching the

faces play across it.

Flowers, sweet, perfect

flowers. Growing, full

of life, Flowers must

heal me after the winter,

Or the blue, blue

sky. I must have

a little corner of it

to remember by.

Not the cold darkness.

The darkness stole

my soul in cold blood.

It will not touch me.

It must not! It

may take even a

beggars life from

me.

Once, the world was

mine. I commanded it,

and it listened. I

was loved, yes, loved.

Then the darkness came.

It tore from me my

people, my riches, my

dreams, my life.

Now it must not

bring me to complete

night. I must have these

few, small things.

Tears, music, moonlight,

flowers, sky. These things.

These only.

They must be mine.

Remeber who I was,

tears and years ago. I

still need a little scrap

of beauty.

Give me something to love,

and I will be content. I

must love. I must

love.

I cannot forget love.

                I wrap myself

                in my arms and look

                out onto the night.

                I put my head down

                and try to push away the

                fear that the night

                brings. I seen the moon,

                but the moon is

                large and I am so

                small. I wonder if the

                world will remember me

                if I am small.

                My heart grows smaller

                within me. With every

                throb it shrinks away. There

                will be nothing left

                if day does not come

                soon.

                My breath brings up

                all the sad,

                lonely,

                lostness

                called despair.

                And I wonder

                how long have I

                been lost?

                For years?

                Since yesterday?

                Do I realize it tonight?

                And I try

                to cry, but despair

                is empty, dry,

                and the tears won’t come.

                Why can’t push this

                away like

                I have before?

                I hug myself tighter

                against the night and

                the fear that comes

                with it. The moon

                shines down, cold

                as ever, not warmed

                by grief. And all the

                aching of the years

                burns out into anger. I

                am furious with the sky

                for being black, the

                world for being

                silent, the moon for

                not caring about me.

                But the world does

                not change. The leaves

                stir listlessly, like a

                ghost was walking.

                Then a little cry breaks

                from me, and I feel joy

                like never before. It

                bubbles inside me, bursting

                out, filling

                the world around me.

                The moon sinks lower,

                the sky grows gray,

                and all the night fears fade.

                Pink stains the sky.

                It is dawn.

Sometimes you see a star,

struggling in the midst of a storm.

And it hurts you,

You realize that, in a way,

you are that star.

There is darkness, blackness all

around you, and the only light

is flame too bright to bear

as it flashes,

making you feel small,

lost and powerless.

Somehow, you are the lightning too.

You have tried to crush

thoughts, ideas, dreams

that struggle in the night,

sometimes, a weak reflection

of you.

You can watch the struggle

of your two selves in the sky.

One trying to kill the beauty,

the other struggling to

bring light.

The lightning has the thunder,

the darkness,

the brilliance,

the power,

the flame,

the whole sky.

But the star must fight

with its soul alone,

with its trembling, beautiful,

crystal soul that is

as pure as morning.

Crystal versus fire,

diamonds thrown into the

forge. Even as the flames

lick around it, the jewel

remains firm and clear.

Power is like that, there

is a time when tyranny

cannot outlast beauty,

life stained only by love.

You realize this and know

that the star will conquer the storm.

Candle flicker, candle flame,

Always changing, always the same.

Laughing with a face of gold,

Shining, brilliant, witching, cold.