I spent most Sundays of the last month of my pregnancy baking.
It was August in Alabama; a sweltering season of triple-digit temperatures most choose to spend by the pool, ice-cold beverage in hand, but I was padding around the kitchen in an oversized Wilco tee, up to my elbows in butter and sugar.
Part therapy, part nesting, baking was a way I could quiet all of the fears I had for my unborn child (what if the girl he likes doesn’t like him back? what if he is missing a major organ or an ear? what if he wants to play football and gets a concussion which leads to a personality disorder? what if he has a personality disorder?) and the way I could prepare for him, even when the nursery was finished and all the tiny clothes washed and folded. Now there were cookies, too.
Though most of my creations hovered just above edible, these muffins were my crowning glory. My husband, a wonderful chef, often teases my cooking and tries to ban me from the stove, but I’ll counter, Remember those muffins?, and he’ll admit, Yes, those were incredible.
The recipe is from a beautiful blog I stumbled onto, Local Milk. It seems a bit odd, with rye flour and olive oil, but follow it to a tee. If these muffins were scarfed down in August, I can’t imagine how good they’d be in November.