I sincerely thank whoever discovered the muffin.
There is something really irresistible about a muffin – all kinds of muffins.
Others may love their croissant, but I love my muffin.
Right away, I think of muffins wrapped in red and white checked gingham in a honey-colored wicker basket. I think of New England or charming European villages with fresh baked breads. I think of the open hearth, with a log fire, at the center of a home.
It’s so primal – food – eating – our daily bread.
It’s homey, comfort food like mashed potatoes. It’s just the right size – bigger than a cookie and a cupcake. What it lacks in the “fun” of a highly decorated cupcake with sprinkles and gobs of frosting, it makes up in being so earthy, so grounded, so hearty.
The batter is thick and solid, more like dough – substantial.
I love the contrast of the crusty and crumbly top, and the moist insides. Especially when they are oversized and the top spills over, as if intentionally over-filled with exuberance, with a kind of carefree, generous feeling in their making.
Sometimes it’s really hard to choose – those filled with blueberries or cranberries, apple or orange chunks. Perhaps the lemon poppyseed or pumpkin, cinnamon or simple corn muffin.
And even beyond better are walnuts and raisins in the muffin, too.
Thank you, God, for my daily muffin.
Thank you, earth, for letting me eat the grains of the field, the fruits and nuts of the trees, and spices of the land in an earthy bread.
If there is reincarnation, and I do believe there is, then I can look forward to my muffins next lifetime, and the next and the next and the next. And if not, then I’m sure heaven must have muffins, too.