English Muffins

When we popped the trunk this evening after the North Whitefield contradance, there were English Muffins everywhere. They were waiting to be squished and squashed and handled, like an older dog who gently places his head beneathe his owner's hand, so we didn't even know that they were craving attention. We picked up the little packages and moved them about, but there were 3 fiddles debating for space and so one of the bags was smooshed, much to it's delight. The fiddles were in their caskets, zipped up and arrested, so there wasn't much dialog coming from them. The English Muffins squealed all the way home, and I listened from the back seat, where I sat with my purple scarf.