By New Year's Eve, and the Hoppin' John simmers. Carrie is in the kitchen — her last evening before returning to Emory — and we cook the peas together, mother and daughter, the annual ritual that is both cooking and praying, both feeding and hoping, both the ending and the beginning.
2024 is ending. The year I retired from the library. The year the second book was started. The year James proposed. The year Carrie came home from Japan. The year I turned fifty-four. The year that was the first full year without Mama and that proved what I suspected: that the life continues, and the continuing is not betrayal of the dead but the honoring of the living, and the honoring is the cooking, and the cooking is the Hoppin' John on the stove at midnight on December 31st.
Robert and I and Carrie toasted at midnight. Three champagne glasses on the piazza. The fireworks over the harbor. The toasting was for the year behind and the year ahead and the continuity that connects them, which is the peas, which is the cooking, which is the love.
Carrie leaves for Emory tomorrow. She will be a junior. She will finish the English degree and the Japanese minor and the education certificate. She will become a teacher. The becoming is the life she has been building since she was fifteen, and the building is almost complete, and the completion will be the beginning, and the beginning will be wherever she goes next, and the wherever will have a kitchen, and the kitchen will have her in it.
I made Hoppin' John. The peas promised continuity. The promise was kept.
We toasted three glasses on the piazza at midnight, and the champagne was for the year behind and the year ahead, and somehow there was a little left over — and that felt right, because the morning after a promise is kept deserves its own small celebration. With Carrie home for one last breakfast before the drive back to Emory, I wanted something bright and festive and a little bit special, something that honored the fizz and hope of the night before without any of the heaviness. These Mimosa Muffins — champagne and orange zest folded into something you can hold in one hand — were exactly that: the toast, continued into morning.
Mini Champagne Orange Muffins (Mimosa Muffins)
Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 12 minutes | Total Time: 27 minutes | Servings: 24 mini muffins
Ingredients
- 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
- 1/2 cup granulated sugar
- 2 teaspoons baking powder
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 cup champagne or dry sparkling wine
- 1/4 cup fresh orange juice
- 1 tablespoon orange zest
- 1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled
- 1 large egg
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1/2 cup powdered sugar (for glaze)
- 1–2 tablespoons champagne or orange juice (for glaze)
Instructions
- Preheat oven. Heat your oven to 375°F. Lightly grease a 24-cup mini muffin tin or line with mini paper liners.
- Whisk dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, granulated sugar, baking powder, and salt until evenly combined.
- Combine wet ingredients. In a separate bowl or large measuring cup, whisk together the champagne, orange juice, orange zest, melted butter, egg, and vanilla extract.
- Mix the batter. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir gently until just combined — do not overmix. A few small lumps are fine. The batter will be slightly thicker than pancake batter.
- Fill the tin. Spoon the batter into the prepared mini muffin cups, filling each about 3/4 full.
- Bake. Bake for 10–12 minutes, until the tops are just set and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Do not overbake — these are best when still moist in the center.
- Cool. Let the muffins cool in the tin for 5 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack.
- Make the glaze. Whisk the powdered sugar with 1–2 tablespoons of champagne or orange juice until you have a smooth, pourable glaze. Drizzle over the cooled muffins and allow to set for a few minutes before serving.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 78 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 3g | Carbs: 12g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 52mg