I want to make muffins, so I make muffins. I’m not too bad at making muffins. But I am too casual about the recipe, too often in a hurry to get them in the oven, so they are rarely great muffins.
I would like to pay attention as I measure and mix: level off the measuring cup, stir just enough but not too much (this, at least, I am good at), and end up with the same amount of batter in every cup.
This morning I decided to use a different recipe for blueberry muffins, and I was haphazard: when I was mixing, I didn’t have almond extract, only vanilla; no whole milk, only half & half and skim; not quite two cups of berries, but close. And after they’d been baking for about ten minutes, I noticed that I had set the oven at 450º instead of 400º.
The result: I took the muffins out of the oven after about twelve minutes. One pan has black bottoms, one is fine, and the one that had the least-full cups is just okay. They taste good, though. They’re cakey muffins, nicely risen, and golden brown on top. I’m satisfied.
Anyway, it occurred to me that I seem to live my life the way I make muffins. And I suppose that if my life is as good as those blueberry muffins, that’s fine with me.
Not Plain Jane 