Magnificent Muffin

Going about your day, do you ever feel like you just stepped into a scene that seems flawlessly staged for a movie set? Where the shop owner suits the shop a little too perfectly? The bird faced librarian, with bifocals on a chain hugs her cardigan tightly around her looks down her nose and hushes you? Where everything is just so quintessential and stereotyped that you look around for the hidden cameras and seeing none, laugh to yourself and catalogue the details for friends but fear you’ll never quite capture it? Well, Colin and I had just such an experience yesterday and at the risk of not doing it justice I’ll attempt a description.

Yesterday, having a day off and a morning to ourselves, Colin and I ventured out to the local coffee/breakfast shop, Magnificant Muffin, we’d been meaning to try. Walking by you’d almost miss it, tucked in between the local post office and the hair salon, but you’d know it by the stream of customers, some of whom run to catch the train just around the corner. If you look carefully you’ll see taped to the window some newspaper articles highlighting its virtues, including winning the “best coffee in Medford” last year.

Mag Muffin doesn't look like much even after you enter. It is a small space with a counter that conceals none of the boxed and crated deliveries in the back, and it has a cramped area in front with mismatched chairs and tables to sit with your coffee. But it’s the walls that first capture your attention. They are absolutely papered with pictures. Pictures of children, and literally hundreds of them. Christmas cards, the first kindergarten photo, the boy posed over his soccer ball, the ballet recital all from different families, but all of the same Magnificant Muffin neighborhood family. Because that is what we’ve walked into. We’ve walked into that local gathering place that modern folk wax nostalgic about, that conservative pundits glorify as the “true America.” A place where all the customers interact with the closeness and familiarity of extended family.

This is the scene we walked into: A middle aged cop and woman, who appears to be his neighborhood gossip informant, sitting at the corner table chatting with the patron, Bea, a stout and matronly woman whose labored movements and frequent leans on the counter indicated that running this shop is exhausting, but a labor of love. A sweatpant and ponytail-clad woman, Annie, then walks in and gets her “usual” and a box of Muffins for her kids, who are still asleep at home. Bea asks about them.
“Can you believe Johnny is already started kindergarten?”
Bea shakes her head. “They grow up so fast.”
Two other middle-aged women then walk in and greet Bea,
“Hi sweetheart.”
“The regular darlings?”
“Yes, but no sugar for me this time hon. I’m trying to cut down.”
As Annie grabs her box of Muffins and heads out the door she passes the two new patrons and says,
“Hi Mrs. Capuano. Hi Mrs. O’Neil.”
Clearly they’ve known each other since Annie was a little girl, but she wouldn’t dream of calling them by their first names even though they are all mothers now. Just as this exchange ends, a
man walks in and is greeted with “Good morning father.”

At this point, Colin and I look at each other. This is too good to be true. A policeman, a housewife, some grandmotherly figures and a priest!? We’ve just stepped into a Normal Rockwell painting. Just as we are thinking this, another man walks through the door and the priest teases,
“Hey! Look who it is! Mr. Moneybags!”
This growing group of patrons all seem in on the joke. Colin and look at each other, this time slack jawed, and I whisper,
“Did we just walk into 1953?” Colin whispers back,
“This should be in black and white.”
We giggle to each other, and then slowly step back from the scene afraid that any sudden movements would disrupt the time warp. But are both thinking the same thing: We want in on this Magnificant Muffin family.