Before the kettle had quite made up its mind, the muffin tin was already laying out tiny paper invitations, one in each round seat. The dough said good morning to the raisin first, then waited for the oven door to nod, and only after that did it rise exactly one little cap.
We asked at the kiosk by the bakery window. "They will not puff until the fruit has been greeted," said a neighbor buying jam. A line in the porch book, written very small, added: one cap only, please; the next cup is still practicing its hello.
A day later the kitchen smelled a little kinder, and the tin sat closer to the oven, as if the whole shelf had already agreed on breakfast.