I have got to get these muffins off my brain. They’re taking up valuable cerebral real estate in the space back there behind my eyeballs. I can’t tell you where exactly, since my eyeballs don’t do complete one-eighties or three-sixties or whatever, but all I know is that ever since I made them, I’ve been saying to myself, “Self, you have got to blog about those muffins.”

And I say back to myself, “Yes, Master Self, you’re right. I do.” And then I go do other incredibly important things like chronicle all the food I’ve never chronicled before and experiment with pancakes (I love pancakes) and scour the toilet.

Until suddenly I get a zinging pain up my back and it’s Master Self again, pulling me up by my boot straps (though I am wearing strapless slippers), trying to get me to walk in the path of righteousness and muffins.

“WRITE ABOUT THOSE MUFFINS!” Master Self bellows. “If you don’t, you might forget about them and then where would we be? Huh? Besides, it’s not fair to keep them all to yourself!”

“Enough already,” I whine, rolling my shoulders in an effort to slacken the taut reins. And then I get a little mouthy. “Have you ever thought that maybe everyone already has their favorite muffin recipe? Or that just maybe, if someone really wanted this particular recipe, they could find it themselves? I—I mean, we—found it, so they could too, right?”

For my backtalk, I’m rewarded with a throbbing headache.

And so it goes—guilt and multiple selves don’t make for an easy life—until Master Self wears down Underling Self, and here I am (though I’m not sure which one of me, exactly), writing about muffins. Or at least I will be writing about muffins once I start writing about them.

I think I might be writing about them now. Yes?

The muffins being written about are Blueberry-Cornmeal Muffins. When I made them, I put blueberries in six of the twelve muffins; the other six I left plain. We loved both kinds, but the blueberry ones got eaten first—that’s how I know we like them best. (I’m good at connecting the dots, see?) It’s also the reason that some of these pictures are of muffins without blueberries—by the time I got around to taking the pictures, the blueberry muffins were well on their way to our tummies.

Cornmeal and blueberries were meant to go together. Did you know that? Together they warm the cockles of your heart. Like blue bathrooms with yellow highlights, so cozy and right.

These muffins are like that. Not like a bathroom, no, but like a yellow and blue bathroom looks, cozy and right. Rightly cozy.

Or something like that.

Blueberry-Cornmeal Muffins
Adapted from The Bread Bible by Rose Levy Beranbaum

I make my own yellow cornmeal from popcorn. Just toss the kernels in the grain mill and flick the switch. Yo-Yo watched me do it today and calls the resulting meal “popcorn flour.”

You can use all whole wheat flour, if you like. And feel free to use two-thirds cup of either plain yogurt or sour cream—I did half of each because I ran out of sour cream. The yogurt gives the muffins a deliciously tangy flavor.

½ cup cornmeal
1/4 cup whole wheat pastry four
1/4 cup white flour, slightly rounded
2 tablespoons, plus 2 teaspoons, sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 large egg
1/3 cup plain yogurt
1/3 cup sour cream
2 tablespoons butter, melted
2/3 cup blueberries, fresh or frozen

Combine the dry ingredients in a mixing bowl. In a separate bowl, mix together the egg, yogurt, sour cream, and butter. Add the wet ingredients to the dry and stir briefly. Fold in the blueberries.

Divide the batter into 12 well-greased muffin tins. Bake the muffins at 400 degrees for 15-18 minutes.

About one year ago: I must have been on sabbatical or something because I wasn’t saying a peep. So I’ll just fill you in on cornmeal previously. Let’s see, there’s cornmeal whole wheat waffles, sweet onion corn bake, and Happy Pappy-style cornbread. One of those ought to float your boat. And if it doesn’t? Well then sink. See if I care.

I have a new favorite coffee drink.

I hardly ever make it for myself since it’s rather involved. There’s whipped cream and shaved chocolate and dissolved dulce de leche, so it’s kind of a production.

I made it for my mom. She liked it.

I made it for my friend. She liked it.

I made it for my husband. He liked it.

I made it for my cousin. She liked it.

I made it for myself. Again. Today. This afternoon. Because I needed to take pictures of it so that you can make it for yourself.

You’ll like it.

Dulce de Leche Coffee
From Pioneer Woman

I found dulce de leche in our Asian food market. It comes two ways: in a block and in a can (like sweetened condensed milk). I bought both kinds just to be on the safe side.

1 ounce dulce de leche
1 tablespoon Kahlua
1 large, very strong, very hot, cup of coffee
lots of whipped cream
shaved chocolate, lots

Dissolve the dulce de leche in a little hot water.

Try to pour the water into the glass, not beside it.

There. That’s better.

Add the Kahlua and hot coffee. The coffee has to be hot. If it’s cooling down, reheat it in the microwave.

Top with a mountain of whipped cream (I usually double this amount, but I ran out of cream). Make the cup overflow. The point is excess. Remember that.

Top with a blizzard of shaved chocolate. Lots and lots and lots of chocolate. You can’t see it in the picture very well, but there is so much chocolate that I practically had to chew it.

So now. Go make this and then come back and thank me. I’ll be waiting.

Our church joins with another local church to produce a lenten devotional—different people reflect on different passages and then all the reflections are published together, each one prefaced by its scripture.

I mentioned before that I had been asked to write one of the devotionals for that packet. I tweeted that it was killing me. I may have tweeted that more than once.

Seriously, writing the little 300-350 word reflection was pure agony. I spent hours on it, and I have four word documents to prove it. I was a mess. I first wrote too expansively, then I wrote too narrowly, and then I realized that I had no idea what the scripture meant anyway. I called my friend and forced her to argue out the passage with me. I went on a walk with my sister-in-law and we talked it out from different angles. I called my mother, repeatedly.

My mother, the Cut-n-Slash Queen, and I struck a deal: she would not look at anything written until the devotional was completed, at which point she would just do a quick edit. That way she wouldn’t get all caught up in my ever-shifting verbosity. Even without any written words between us, our phone conversations were painful. She would, more likely than not, strip my carefully constructed ideas down to nothingness, except, maybe, for one little idea that she thought might have potential. “Write about that,” she’d say. “You might have something there.”

I talked about my failed attempts at service. I talked about how the most effective service springs from my desires and interests. I questioned the basics—like whether or not there is any point in helping poor people at all. I talked about love feasts versus fasting and sweet rolls versus brown bread. I talked about Zoloft, foster kids, relief kits, my mild eating disorder, and my Fabric Phobia. I started to wonder if I was missing Isaiah’s point all together.

And it was then that my idea was born: I would write a letter to Isaiah and ask him my questions! Who said I had to have the answers, anyway?

I’m including the letter here. If you want, you can pretend you’re Isaiah and answer my questions yourself. I would enjoy that. (For background, read Isaiah 58:1-12.)

Dear Isaiah,

With all due respect, this scripture doesn’t make much sense to me. I’ve never dressed in sackcloth, I hate fasting, and praying out loud just isn’t my style. Despite the occasional well-planned good deed, I consider myself to be rather selfish. I help other people because I want them to appreciate me.

Just this past December I made dinner for a local homeless shelter. It was to be our Family Christmas Present For Jesus. My kids helped plan the menu and came along to the shelter to cut the cake and wash the dishes, but I did most of the grunt work. Despite the stress and messy kitchen, I had fun. I even got a little giddy watching the guests scarf down my food.

Now according to you, our little feed-the-poor event was true worship, but I don’t know about that. I had ulterior motives: I wanted to introduce my children to another sector of our community, and cooking is something that energizes me. And guess what? I got my ego stroked and felt rather proud of myself (in a humble sort of way).

I’m wondering, Isaiah. In some circumstances, might our good deeds become false worship? Or does the fact that we are helping others negate such wickedness?

And one more thing: are you saying that community service counts more than one’s everyday moil and toil? If so, I’m in serious trouble because most of my life revolves around hanging up the laundry, teaching my children how to put their shoes away, and resolving innumerable spats with my husband. Isn’t every part of life supposed to be worship?

So anyway, Isaiah, I’m not sure I catch your drift. But I do know that cooking that dinner was such a blast that I just might have to do it again sometime soon.

Cheerio!
Jennifer