The best part—and there are many—about going to the library is the morning after.

When I arrive home from my evening trip to town with my gigantic canvas tote brimming over with books, magazines, and videos, the kids are usually already asleep, and Mr. Handsome and I get to sort through the loot together.

The videos and educational books (ie, ones that the kids aren’t allowed to look through because I plan to read them out loud later) are stored up on a high shelf. (Not that they can’t get up there, but still.)

My reading material gets stored on a lower shelf, and we fill up the book baskets with the remaining picture books.

The next morning the children come downstairs, groggy and tousled, and I whisper, There are new library books in the baskets. It’s like I switched a magical button. They scurry wordlessly to the baskets, drag them over by the fire, switch on the lamps, grab the ratty old throw blankets, and disappear into the world of pictures and words. There is no fussing. There is no begging for breakfast. There is no bickering.

I let them lay around longer than normal, mornings after library trips, and I read to them more, too. This last time around I pulled out the stack of read-aloud books and showed them to Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo. They were, understandably, impatient to get started, so after our Bible reading (Joshua is a earth-shattering book for my kids; Yo-Yo has decided that the Bible is not a good book after all and that Joshua’s God is not our God) and chemistry element (nickel), I read to them about the history of ice cream, the first seeing eye dogs, how to draw faces in profile, and some prayers and rhymes. Next week we’ll delve into Greek mythology and world religions.

Tonight Yo-Yo is going out with his mentor to see a play, so I will not be able to read from our evening read-aloud, All Creatures Great and Small. Instead, I’ll be reading the library picture books, something I don’t do all that much anymore. I plan to read until my voice gives out, and then Mr. Handsome can take it from there.

If we read fast enough, I might be able to justify another trip to the library as soon as next week.

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.