My mother didn’t bake much when I was a child. In fact the few times that she did break out the measuring cups and pans stand out in my memory along with the warm aroma of cinnamon and the smell of an oven being heated after a long, cold, dormant winter….
So I work at a coffee shop, and I know the dirty truth about those fluffy scrumptious-looking muffins you order with your coffee every day. You know that fluffy blueberry one with the crumb topping? The one you justify getting because it has “fruit” in it, and looks a lot healthier than the bear claw or chocolate muffin sitting next to it? —- Don’t even get me started on the crumb-topped coffee cake, and I hate to break it to you all, but the bran muffin is just as bad.