I wake up early this morning because of the time change, and decide to make muffins for breakfast. Two cups of whole wheat pastry flour, half a teaspoon of salt, half a teaspoon of baking soda, a quarter-cup of brown sugar. And what else? I know: there's half of a zucchini in the vegetable drawer. I shred it finely and toss the shreds with the flour. We're out of ground cinnamon but we have some cinnamon sticks, so I rub one over the tiniest nubs of the box grater, feeling quite domestic as I do. In my glass measuring cup I beat an egg with about three-quarters of a cup of plain yogurt and half a cup of orange juice (those are ballpark figures, so if you are intrigued by this recipe despite what follows, be advised), and add oil, about 3T. Mindful that my children will probably not say "zucchini muffins! our favorite! thanks, Mom!" I toss in a handful of dark chocolate chips. (Chocolate: it's not just for breakfast anymore.)
(Oh! While they are baking I remember a culinary misstep from years ago: when we first moved to Edinburgh we invited our priest to come for dinner. For dessert I baked a carrot-zucchini cake, moist and dark and flavorful. I didn't realize until a long time afterward that zucchini is just not a dessert component in the UK. Because they don't have our crazy August zucchini proliferation, they do not have the born-of-desperation-but-actually-pretty-good recipes we take for granted here. For the priest, it must have been as if I'd said, "Here! Eggplant cake for dessert!" [or aubergine cake, I suppose it would be in Britain.])
Anyway. The timer beeps; the muffins emerge from the oven pale gold with flecks of bright green. I call the boys to the table and they dig in as soon as we say grace. The boy from next door knocks. "Look!" Marty tells him. "We have M&Ms in our muffins." Compulsively honest fool that I am, I say, "Oh, no, there are chocolate chips in these muffins, but no M&Ms."
There is a silence while the oldest two look at each other. "What are these green things?" they want to know. "My secret ingredient," I hedge, but it is no good. "We're not eating them until we know what's in them," they declare. I tell them. "We're definitely not eating them now," they say.
They are steadfast in their refusal. The two younger boys are enjoying the muffins; the neighbor kid (who thinks our family's food preferences are nothing short of bizarre) eats one and declares it non-toxic. ("Pretty good" from him is the equivalent of four stars.) But Alex and Marty are resolute; green vegetables in a muffin are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, and they are determined to remain ritually pure.
Once upon a time I thought disdainful thoughts about mothers who served chocolate before noon. These days I think I should have let the illusion continue. Next time they think a zucchini piece is an M&M, maybe I'll keep my mouth shut.
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