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Classic Blueberry Muffins -- The Batter That Turned Saturday Into Something

The tomatoes have set. Small green ones, the size of marbles, hanging in clusters among the leaves. I brought Liam to the fire escape on Monday morning to see them and he looked at the small green tomatoes for a long time—longer than he looks at most things, which already runs longer than most toddlers—and then looked at me and said "mato?" with a questioning inflection that meant: is this the thing? I said yes, that's the thing. He reached for one. I said not yet. He looked at it for another moment and then withdrew his hand, which is either respect for my authority or strategic patience. He's fifteen months. I'm not sure which.

June on the floor. Diane finished her first treatment cycle and her markers came down, which is the best possible outcome for a first cycle and which she received with the controlled satisfaction of a teacher who expected a good exam result and got it. She said "alright then" and asked about the second cycle timeline and wrote it in her notebook. I find her extremely clarifying to work with. She doesn't want more than the information. The information is what she does with it.

Saturday pancakes this week included blueberries. Sean announced this as an innovation and he's not wrong—the blueberries are at their early-summer best and in the batter they go dark and soft and the whole pancake takes on something. Liam ate four. I ate four. Sean ate four. Twelve pancakes between three people on a Saturday morning in June. That's the measurement of a good Saturday.

The blueberries Sean folded into the pancake batter that Saturday were so good — dark and soft and at that early-summer peak — that I couldn’t stop thinking about what else they’d do. Twelve pancakes between three people is already a statement, but there’s a version of that same morning that lives in muffin form: something you can wrap up, hand to a toddler, eat standing at the counter while the tomatoes are still green and the markers are coming down and the June light is doing exactly what it should. These are those muffins.

Classic Blueberry Muffins

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes | Servings: 12 muffins

Ingredients

  • 2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 3/4 cup granulated sugar
  • 2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 1 large egg
  • 3/4 cup whole milk
  • 1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled
  • 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
  • 1 1/2 cups fresh blueberries
  • 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour (for tossing blueberries)
  • 1 tablespoon coarse sugar, for topping (optional)

Instructions

  1. Preheat & prep. Preheat your oven to 400°F. Line a standard 12-cup muffin tin with paper liners or grease well with butter or cooking spray.
  2. Mix dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the 2 cups of flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt until evenly combined.
  3. Mix wet ingredients. In a separate medium bowl, whisk the egg, milk, melted butter, and vanilla extract until smooth.
  4. Combine. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir gently with a spatula until just combined — a few lumps are fine. Do not overmix or the muffins will be tough.
  5. Fold in blueberries. Toss the blueberries with the 1 tablespoon of flour (this helps prevent them from sinking), then fold them gently into the batter.
  6. Fill the tin. Divide the batter evenly among the 12 muffin cups, filling each about 3/4 full. Sprinkle the tops with coarse sugar if using.
  7. Bake. Bake for 18–22 minutes, until the tops are golden and a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean.
  8. Cool. Let muffins cool in the tin for 5 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 195 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 32g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 175mg

Kate Donovan
About the cook who shared this
Kate Donovan
Week 167 of Kate’s 30-year story · Boston, Massachusetts
Kate is a thirty-five-year-old nurse practitioner in Boston and a widowed mother of two whose husband Sean died of brain cancer at thirty-three. She makes Irish soda bread and beef stew and shepherd's pie because the recipes are all she has left of a man who was supposed to grow old with her. She writes about cooking through grief and finding out you can still feed your children on the worst day of your life.

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