Ellington

You know how it is, some teen-aged girls have flaming crushes on celebrities—mainly musicians, actors and athletes. Way back when I was a teen-ager, most of mine had one characteristic in common—they were English—as in the Beatles and Prince Charles.

As a consequence, wanting to devour all things British, I discovered English muffins. These were not pre-split, so I sawed them in two, stuffed them into the toaster—this was years and years before wide-slot toasters—and then dug them out when they failed to pop up properly. By then, the heat had dissipated to the point that the butter hardly melted, but I was going to eat them and enjoy them, come hell or high water. I was in Mississippi, and they were English—the closest I could come to John, Paul, George, Ringo and Charles.

By the time President Gerald Ford was toasting his own English muffins for reporters and photographers in September 1974, and explaining that to get optimum results from your muffin you should split it with a fork, ensuring the creation of butter-catching craters and ridges that would toast crisp and brown, I had made a few culinary discoveries of my own. I knew for a fact that the president was right. How often can one say that?

In 1970, Mama and I had packed all my stuff in a 1966 maroon Impala Chevrolet and moved me to Kansas City, to live with a cousin and work at an insurance company, then Southwestern Bell. I wandered the streets of downtown on my lunch hour, often stopping at Wolferman's, an enticing and exciting grocery store unlike any A&P or Liberty I'd ever seen. Who wouldn't want to walk through the doors of a colorful establishment whose motto was "Good Things to Eat"? Upstairs, in a sort of balcony that ringed the walls, you could sit down and eat a great lunch at the cafe, if you were lucky enough to quickly find a table. More often than not, I cruised the aisles, bought some fruit and crackers and returned to the grind.

One blissful lunch time, I discovered Wolferman's English muffins, stacked neatly in their oblong package. On the container, instructions were given to pry them apart with a fork before toasting. And by this time I had my very own Munsey toaster oven, so I gamely bought a package of the dense, taller-than-usual, smaller-around-than-usual, muffins. Back at the office, answering phone calls from people complaining about their phone bills, I tripped on memories of my Beatles-crazy days and of my Prince Charming, vividly brought back to mind by those English muffins sitting beside my purse in the desk drawer.

Next morning, I split open a muffin with a fork, toasted the pieces to a golden brown, spread a bit of butter on top of them, then took my first bite. Warm, sweet, buttery, chewy, divine.

Over 30 years later, I still enjoy an English muffin now and then—not Wolferman's, although I could order them online. My muffins of choice, when I can find them, are Wonder Original 6 English Muffins. From the bottom of the package, I learned they are Redi-Split, so all I do is stick a case knife in and twist, pull it out, rotate the muffin, repeat the knife motion, doing this until the entire muffin comes apart. Then, if I'm in a hurry, I spread the butter on before popping them into my Black and Decker Toaster Oven/Broiler.

In my humble opinion, whether or not the English muffin actually originated in Britain, it's the most satisfying part of the British invasion that I've ever experienced—in a culinary fashion. Not to take away from my beloved Beatles, but that's auditory.

And, as I get older, I can answer that question "Will you still love me when I'm 64?" with a resounding yes to the Fab Four and the Original 6. Charles, however, is another story completely—he's an old man, for goodness sake.