I think I found it. I think I have finally found a muffin pan I might actually keep for a dollar, at a thrift shop.
Vintage. Metal. Eight cups. Standard-sized. A perfect size.
A Bake King, lightly worn. Which is to say: it has seen things. So have I.
I’ve been through it with muffin pans:
The standard 12-cup? Overly ambitious. Feels like too much. And sometimes you don’t have enough batter for all 12 cups.
The mini pans? Adorable in theory, but it’s like baking for dolls.
The jumbo ones? No one wants a muffin that’s basically a personal loaf.
And freestanding silicone cups? Just chaotic. They lean. They spill. They ask for a pan under them.
But this one…
This 8-cup, dented, older-than-me Bake King? (They were made in the ’40s and ’50s, according to the interwebs.)
It fits.
Not just in the baking cabinet (although: thank you), but in that small domestic space between need and enough.
It doesn’t assume I’m baking for a crowd.
And sure, it needs a little re-seasoning. A little love.
But honestly? Who doesn’t?
I love vintage things. When you see one in a shop it’s like missing something you didn’t even know you were. Or maybe you did know, just thought you’d never see one again.
I’ve bought and gotten rid of so many muffin pans. I realized I was back to “no muffin pans” after donating two of those ridiculous minis. I made mini brownies and almost immediately cursed myself. They just don’t hit the same when they’re less than a bite. Come on.
Cleaning this one will be a quick, satisfying weekend project. A little Bar Keepers Friend, a bit of oil, some oven time.
Wouldn’t it be nice if everything were that easy?
I’m not sure what I’ll bake first. Maybe mini quiches, maybe the Jiffy blueberry muffins from childhood that come out neon blue and taste like summer mornings and cartoons. Dehydrated blueberries in them. LOL.
Unrelated: Word Raccoon cannot stay awake today and is insulting my novel by falling asleep over it. I’ve tried caffeine, a timer, but nothing’s working. I made her come to the library with me to pick up the latest Grisham (they texted me it was in! Weekend reading!).
She perked up briefly when I grabbed some basil for the shakshuka I’m making tonight; she took a deep sniff. We’ve been meaning to try it for ages. So, let’s. Wish me luck!
In other raccoon mischief: she was up early scrubbing the stove and tossing expired fridge items. I told her to drain the jar of pickles she put in a bag on the floor, but did she listen? No. Later she was apparently bowling with a spaghetti squash and must’ve knocked the jar over. So now the house smells like pickles.
I think she owes me more writing time for that. And I might not share my lunch.
Maybe I’ll make her drink another horrible smoothie like the spinach-cherry-banana-protein-powder one from this morning. With chia seeds and peanut butter. (I got tired of hyphenating halfway through.)
(Pretty sure that’s what made her start tossing things in the first place; we’ve tried the new protein powder twice. No thanks. She yeeted it into the trash. Back to the old brand.)
Also, where can I even find that Jiffy mix anymore? Butter one of those muffins and that’s childhood on a plate.
dremadrudge.com 