Whenever my mom would make huckleberry muffins it was like Christmas morning. No matter how tired we were, or how much we didn’t want to get up because it meant our last ditch efforts in playing sick would be up, my brothers and I would stampede to the kitchen. And there they’d be in all their huckleberry glory with melting butter (Mom
was is a big fan of butter – I’m actually surprised I made it out of the house under 200 lbs.) dripping from there perfectly baked domes.
So this morning I decided to make Zee German (read: myself) some of my mom’s muffins. And though they looked and tasted yummy, they still didn’t produce quite the same mouthgasmic experience as when my mom makes them (I’m pretty sure this may have something to do with an obscene quantity of butter that I’m only okay with if I don’t add it myself). Didn’t crumble in quite the same way, and definitely don’t make me feel warm, safe and giddy as when my mom makes them.
Damn you mom and your magic muffins. I realize this is part of an evil ploy to keep me in driving distance to home. Well played. Well played my friend.