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apfelschorle (sparkling apple juice) and strudel; banquets of unnamed potato matter and unidentifiable potatoesque gravy; snacktimes that paid tribute to the Rittersport and Coca-Cola corporations; horns-a-plenty packed with chips, pretzels, Snickers bars, crepes, cheese, wine, water (still and “with gas”), peaches, almonds, tea, bread, honeydew, Nutella, lunchmeat, and rarely, if ever, a green vegetable. But can the German cornocopia be stuffed vegan mini-muffins as well?”

“They were just here,” my bandmate teased. “Now they are gone.”

“The case of the missing mini-muffins!” I exclaimed. “Muffins, but in miniature.” I proceeded to tear through every food item in the backstage area. I found peanuts, bananas, and choco-bars. I found an onion, some Rice Krispies, and another onion. I found rice, mushrooms, assorted spices, seitan, a bottle of olive oil, and a tomato. But, after fifteen minutes and much rustling, I had no mini-muffins.

“Can’t find the vegan mini-muffins?” my bandmate inquired from the depths of his food coma.

“No mini-muffins,” I replied. Resigned, I flung myself upon a nearby leather couch. The couch groaned “squeak-squeak.” Squeak-squeak is the the sound of my failure to locate my vegan mini-muffins, I thought. I closed my eyes and heard the droning, distorted guitars of the opening act, Germans who played a distinctly American form of “positive” hardcore punk rock. This band’s “posi-core” compositions sought to inspire drug-addled, TV-addicted youth towards leftist political action. Upon hearing the impassioned singer plunge into another anthemic chorus, I was struck with a lightning bolt of inspiration—-I could solve the case of the missing mini-muffins after all!

I leapt from the leather couch and strode to the garbage bin. I proceed to sort through the contents until, after some minutes, I retrieved an empty package of mini-muffins.

“Found the mini-muffins?” my bandmate inquired.

“I have solved the case of the missing mini-muffins,” I observed. I quickly scanned the ingredients, and struggled with an unfamiliar word. “Milchpulver,” I managed.

“Pulverized milk,” my bandmate replied from the couch. “Also known as powered milk.” He licked his lips. “Guess those mini-muffins weren’t vegan after all,” he observed, turned over, and fell asleep.