I grew up with the English muffin; I know its habits. It comes from the grocery store, lives in the fridge, and has a thing for the toaster. It’s quirky: brown spotted, fork split, craggy faced. I didn’t pry.
Then I tried to make one. Turns out the muffin has a background, a heritage, a past.
I mixed a bread dough enriched with butter and milk. I patted it flat, punched out rounds, then read: griddle. Who knew?