The Muffins of Gentrification
In the five years I've lived in Prosect Heights I've seen several signs of gentrification–-white people with jobs, buildings going co-op, neighborhood bars with windows you can actually see through--but one element of gentrification has eluded us: the muffins.
The closest bodega to my apartment has only corn muffins. Brand name corn muffins that are about as fresh as the 20th century batteries behind the counter. There are no blueberry, no banana nut, nor any walnut or anything other than plain corn muffins. What's worse is the little grocery store down the street has no muffins at all, just low-end coffee cakes, doughnuts, and hostess knock-offs. The bodega down the street from them has nothing resembling muffins.
Dangit, if I have to put up with all of the white people with jobs moving into my neighborhood and ruining my street cred, I should at least get some damn muffins!
Thanks to my rent-stabilized apartment, this is the first neighborhood I've been in where gentrification can't kick me out, I deserve some freakin' muffins. Every other neighborhood I've lived in I've had to leave at the first sign of white people with jobs. I pack up my sad belongings in a rented van and as I pull out I can see the muffin truck pulling in.
I can walk to Park Slope of course, those child-rearing yuppies are up to their Kate Spade handbags in muffins. And Manhattan, oh my gosh, muffins galore! Delis in Manhattan have so many kinds of muffins I think a new one is invented every day.
But no, in my little corner of Prospect Heights: just raggedy-ass corn muffins.
Come on white people with jobs, you've already changed the neighborhood to the point at which I walk down the street and people no longer think I'm an artist, they think I'm a lawyer. You could have at least brought some muffins.