The Muffin Deception

I made vegan meatballs tonight.  Not because I had something to prove, or lovely Bohemian dinner guests. I’m not considering a change of lifestyle- she says as she takes another bite of ice cream- not even for only two meals a day.  Tofu for BREAKFAST???? I’ll pass.   I just took out Mark Bittman’s VB6 Cookbook from the library this week and they actually sounded, well, good.  But I’m actually not going to talk about Mark Bittman, or his meatless balls tonight.  (On which I grated a copious amount of parmesan.  It’s not a confession if there was no intention to begin with, ok?) But rather, another foodie icon in this house.

During a surge of unexpected domesticity, I decided to make dinner AND dessert.  My husband, mind you, is not a dessert guy.  Breads, muffins, those are more his bag.  So, I turned to one of Ina’s cookbooks for a tried and true muffin recipe I could serve him after dinner and have plenty for breakfast the next day.  (Muffins for breakfast, yes, tofu, no.)

Ina has never steered me wrong before.   If I wasn’t already married when I made her engagement chicken, it would’ve landed a rock for sure.  I learned all of my french pronunciations from watching her Madeline-esque bob swish up and down the screen.  I have been known to whisper, “How easy is that?” Under my breath as the rising steam of of a crisp pinot grigio meets a hot pan.  I may or may not have had dreams of her leaving me her East Hampton home in her will, knowing that I would care deeply for her garden.  Her kitchen.  Her adorably flamboyant florist bestie.

I digress.

I chose her banana crunch muffin recipe and eliminated the “crunch” part, knowing my husband’s disdain for sweet things.  Poor thing.

I know it’s been a while since I’ve baked with “typical” ingredients (Like, no chia, psysillium husk, soaked almond flour, and other amazingly hippie things I have pouring out of my cabinets) and I can’t remember the last time I used real cane sugar that’s WHITE, so I just figured all of these, now, foreign ingredients must be normal.

They smelled like fairy tales while they were baking which should have been the first sign, folks.  Like fairy tales with unicorns and little girl’s princess birthday parties and rainbows and hello kitty and everything lovely.

These little monsters are CUPCAKES. You can’t just call something a muffin because you put a little fruit in it and you’d eat it for breakfast.   I’d eat pizza for breakfast.  That doesn’t make it a frittata.  Nope, not even if you crack an egg over the top.  (Which sounds like something someone should do tomorrow am.  )

Don’t get me wrong, they’re delicious.  Because they’re CUPCAKES.  However, I thought it only fair to warn you, in case you are as trusting of the woman as I was.  She will sneak that bleached white sugar right in through your door before you can say boo and hold your entire family hostage to it’s alluring power.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Muffin, indeed.

Don’t believe everything you read, my friends.

Except what I write.

Obviously.

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