They Said This Would Be Fun: A Story of Misguided Baking Endeavors

Before the Dark Times. 

I am still in recovery, friends. 

No, not from the Snowmagedden we are experiencing in the Pacific Northwest. No, not even from having a toddler, being about 6 months pregnant, and having fibromyalgia. Although, all those things factor into the Tale of Woe with which I am about to regale you.

I attempted to make English muffins yesterday. 

Gluten free English muffins. 

And I thought it would be a good idea to start them at 4pm. 

4pm, my friends. 

Why, you ask? 

Because the need and desire and heart for breakfast sandwiches is STRONG. And powerful, overriding a bastion of common sense and knowledge that baked items made with yeast require TIME. Time, the very thing that a mother of a toddler knows is most elusive and fleeting of all, well, things. Especially around 4pm.

I think it all started with the Egg McMuffin. Let’s face it—those things are plainly delicious. And conjure up images of early morning road trips, pale orange juice from cool plastic cups, and cheerful, bright yellow wrappers. The Egg McMuffin is a pure thing, and should be thought of only with love and fondness. 

My next obsession with neatly presented breakfast food came from a little place in town called Torre Cafe, where the breakfast sandwich is indeed NEXT LEVEL. Fragrant rosemary bun. Ham or sausage or bacon. Perfectly scrambled egg. Melty cheese. Fresh tomato. Homemade pesto. A moment of silence for this culinary masterpiece that saw me through many a rough day. Pair it with a lovely handcrafted latte from this Italian gem of a cafe and all worries seemed to fade into a meaningless, faraway cloud. 

Fast forward to recent months—being pregnant with hyperemesis gravidarum in the first trimester. This means being incredibly nauseous ALWAYS which in turn means being hungry ALL THE TIME. When I could eat, I was SO HUNGRY. Breakfast sandwiches—even those filled with gluten, my usual arch nemesis, became very IMPORTANT. Full of satisfying carbs and protein—they helped me survive until reaching the 2nd trimester. Thank you, Starbucks and Crusin’ Coffee. You fairy godmothers. 

So here I am. Always craving the practically compact, yet delicious breakfast sandwich. I know I do better sans gluten in my life, and even in the Pacific Mecca of gluten free living, I haven’t been able to source a gluten free English muffin. 

SO WHY NOT ATTEMPT MY OWN, was my optimistic yet deluded thinking. Armed with 4 English muffin rings I received for Christmas (as I let my family know of my recent passion) and an online recipe that had over a dozen positive reviews, Toddler and I began yesterday, as I said, at 4pm. 

My usual style of baking these days is as follows: wet ingredients, dry ingredients, mix, dump, bake, eat. EASY. SIMPLE. 

And it started out easy. Mix dry ingredients together. Toddler and I are whizzing through this part—MERE CHILD’S PLAY. 

Boil milk and oil together—Ok, I have to do this part. And make sure Toddler doesn’t whisk all the dry stuff out of the bowl in her enthusiasm for the craft. 

Pour boiled mixture in with dry ingredients. Another mama-only activity. Toddler has moved on to other bigger things. I now must have eyes in the back of my head while I try not to scald myself with the boiling milk. Let sit for 20 minutes. 

Ooops, have made the water for the yeast and sugar mix TOO hot. Must let cool off. I run around after Toddler—it’s obviously time to play Grocery Store. I try not to think about the growing stack dishes in the sink. Or how the time on the clock is sped up to H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine speeds. 

Water now (hopefully) cool enough to add yeast and sugar. Wait another 15 minutes. Toddler asks nicely that I help put the Grocery Store back together so she can dump all items in her TJ Maxx paper bag. Must attend. Dishes continue to pile up, because that’s the kind of person I am. 

FINALLY add yeast mixture to flour-milk mixture. LET RISE FOR 30 MINUTES. It is completely after 5:15pm now and the thought finally enters my brain that oh, we are not having breakfast sandwiches for dinner. I let this go, although not gracefully, and search in my heart for what else WE COULD POSSIBLY HAVE FOR DINNER. I am sitting on a kitchen chair at this point, exhausted by my endeavors and making sure that Toddler doesn’t pull another kitchen chair over on herself or up to a counter and get burned or something. The dishes in the sink are now spilling over on the counter and I am ignoring their existence. 

Finally, I preheat the oven and oil up the English muffin rings and heat up a skillet. THIS IS IT. I add in two egg whites as the last of the ingredients and we are at last READY. This batter is really impressive. Hope is RISING. I am determined to see this process through, even though Toddler and I have each officially entered the Witching Hour, being hungry and grumpy coupled with not enough outdoor time. 

I dump the dough into the rings in the skillet and try to wait. Then Toddler pinches her pinkie in the little washer/dryer toy and needs my immediate nursing skills and the fox ice pack from the freezer. We sit on the floor and I do my best to comfort and soothe. Aware of time passing and my muffins probably needing to be flipped at this point, I notice from my position on the floor, that there is SMOKE rising from my skillet. Not a lot of smoke, just enough to make me freak out a little. I scramble to my feet, which takes a lot of effort given my with-child-ness, amidst a sobbing, clinging child. Uttering a choice word, I flip over the molds with not a lot of aplomb, and behold, MY MUFFINS ARE BURNED. 

All I can do is stare. 

It is 5:37pm. I have a whole bowl of batter waiting. The oven is ready to go. My child is staring up at me with tear-filled eyes and a sore finger. I haven’t decided what to make for our actual dinner, let alone started it. I suddenly feel bone-tired. The desire for silence, chocolate, and a nice, cozy murder show are suddenly very strong. 

AND YET HERE WE ARE. 

So I make some very quick decisions, influenced by my worsening attitude (“ENGLISH MUFFINS ARE STUPID ANYWAY”) and growing hunger and upset child. I use the last two ring molds in another pan, as the first pan has BLACK BURN MARKS. I start some boxed mac and cheese. I get my poor little love in her booster chair with some books and some water. I proceed to burn the last two muffins AGAIN because apparently I didn’t learn the first time. I finally am able to bestow the four sad muffins into the waiting oven and can focus on my mac and cheese. I ask Toddler if she wants blueberries. She says yes and dumps some on the floor. I keep my cool, against all odds. She eats the mac and cheese and tuna. Grim-faced, I throw the rest of the batter in a plastic bag and dump it in the freezer like one of the bodies from my murder shows so I don’t have to think about it for a while. I manage to get the muffins out of the oven without further incident and ignore their mocking presence while we get on with our evening routine. 

We all survived, I am happy to report. 

We even managed to make it to lunch today, when Toddler asked for some of the Muffins we made yesterday. I pull the least offensively burned one out, and split it in half. IT IS NOT BAD. I toast one half while she nibbles on the other. THE FLAVOR IS ACTUALLY REALLY GOOD. Texture not bad either! Oh yes, still burned a bit but TASTY. I mean, Toddler is eating it! 

So….SUCCESS! 

Will I ever attempt English muffins again, you ask? 

It is too soon to know for sure BUT this I do know: 

Definitely not at 4pm. 

Definitely not then. 

Here is the link to the delicious recipe: https://gluten-free-bread.org/step-by-step-to-the-best-gluten-free-english-muffins. May your luck and timing be WISER than mine!