Nine year old Mae likes to make muffins on Saturday morning. As those beautiful corn and buckwheat muffins rolled out of the tins, I had just come back from checking cows (had two new babies before sunup) and fixing fence (they had gotten out and were eating my brand new crested wheatgrass seeding). I reached under the warming towel while she wasn’t looking, helped myself to a chilled glass of raw cow milk and put a nice slab of butter on one.
She caught me red-handed. She gets real owly about people eating the grub before its out on the table, but nobody else was out of bed, and I just could not stand seeing those little biscuits get cold.
I wish you could try one—they are entirely of her design—so you could understand why I had to make off with one (actually two now). A little bit of corn meal for crunch and that deep earthy flavor of buckwheat with honey built right in. Just wasn’t fitting to pass them up fresh and hot out of the cast iron.
She stopped what she was doing and said that she wrote a poem for those people in bed while she was pulling muffins from the pan:
Rise and shine!
or the muffins are MINE!
Get out of bed!
or you won’t get FED!
Glad I got out of bed.