“Donnnnnnnn, Donnnnnnn, I know you love me . . . I know you want me . . .” OMG, the siren call of rag muffins. I tried to resist. Cousins were coming over for mid-morning breakfast before they flew back to their homes in Detroit and Los Angeles. “Donnnnnnn, Donnnnnn . . .” What’s a man to do?
Rag muffins are so much a part of my life . . . my family . . . my thoughts . . . my loves. I’ve even written about them before. Biscuit dough cut into strips with one side coated in cinnamon and brown sugar: rolled up into little pinwheels of heaven. Topped with a pat (or two) of butter, I just can’t resist. My mom and my aunt (my mom’s twin sister) probably ate them as children back in Oklahoma and Missouri. They made them and shared the recipe and the need with their children and their mates. My wife makes them for me and our daughter makes them as Christmas gifts for family.
Even though it was Saturday, I was up early to complete some social media marketing for my clients. I had a client coming at nine. I turned on the computer at four-thirty. I worked until six-thirty and then collected the local newspapers and sat down at the kitchen table to read the latest news and other articles. I glanced at the Seattle Times headline “Grandparents raising grandkids*” and my mind immediately wandered from the cool blue morning light to our first two grandchildren. The oldest stayed with us for awhile with her mother and the second one we watched every Tuesday while her mother worked. Peg and I welcomed the opportunity. The memories of tickling, giggling, reading, and sharing adventures as well as the quiet moments together are golden.
Soon I was lost in recollections of Teletubbies and storybooks. Washington has 43,000 kinship caregivers, both official and unofficial. We would have been unofficial. The babes were hardly interruptions. I’m sure that’s how others feel as well. We were able to help and money was not a concern. The effort was a joy. It’s nice to see that grandparents are taking part in the raising of their grandchildren.
When I awoke from my reverie, I was two cups of cocoa and four rag muffins down. There were no regrets and the rewards were as sweet as the impressions left by just those two grandchildren alone.
*Grandparents raising grandkids by Marcus Harrison Green – seattletimes.com/seattle-news/when-grandma-becomes-the-parent-should-older-relatives-raising-kids-in-washington-state-get-paid-the-same-as-foster-parents/
dennis flannigan says
According to my grandchildren, it’s really grandchildren raising grandparents by introducing them to the strangest and most expensive private schools, toys that run by themselves until grandparents get tired of stepping on them, and the idea of buying salads in a bag, ice cream in 14 ounce containers, and helping adults learn that movies are from an ancient past. Plus, pizza is the only food, and kale is a vegetable that should never have been rediscovered by farmers hoping to green our teeth with flecks of protein.
Plus the grandparents need electric toothbrushes and there are no flannel sheets in the whole house. And of course you should enter life with an expensive cell phone that amuses the child but not the grandparent.
Don Doman says
You are soooo astute . . . that’s why Peg and I put up with you , Okay, it’s mostly because of Jayashri, but I’m sure you understand.
My fondest hope is that science will soon discover the drawbacks of eating un-fried kale.
Indeed, as you suggest, grandchildren are a great joy. Just watching them go through life brings smiles to our faces. And of course we get a golden glow of love and appreciation when they adjust our cell phones, set our automobile clocks, and explain the intricacies of microwaving a little mac and cheese.
Enjoy the rest of today!
William Elder says
Don, I am curious about your family name for what most people call cinnamon rolls or twists: rag muffins. My only experience with something like that term is ragamuffin, which has nothing to do with tasty treats but rather with poor dirty street urchins. I looked through a half dozen dictionaries and thesauruses for a connection and found none. A rag is a rag, except if you’re Norse and are predicting the end of the cosmos. That makes it a ragnarok (I had a Norwegian friend who was named that!). Muff runs the gambit from vagina to hand warmer, not a long stretch, but then careens into pejorative “regular muff”, meaning a dufus, a screw up. That comes full circle to ragamuffin, the pronouncement. I wonder if the simple kitchen handout in Missouri picked up an off-handed backhand like the Southern hushpuppy did. My mother came up with these homemade malapropisms, like allegories-along-the-Nile, all the time: the barrel you burned trash in, out in the back yard— back when you could— became the “insinuater”, just as the foot pedal one presses to make the car go faster was the “exhilarater”. Of course.
Don Doman says
They’ve always been ragmuffins. Possibly came from Chickasha, Oklahoma where my mom was born or Texas where my grandmother was born. It sounds like your mom might have come up with a different name for the pinwheels . . . eat two now and one “alittlelater.”
Thanks for sharing and an early afternoon chuckle.