Earlier this fall, I decided to learn to crochet in earnest. I say “learn” as if I were starting from scratch, but I have faint, fuzzy memories of both grandmothers leaning over my shoulder, guiding my hand as we built endless chains that trailed across the carpet like vines, only to be unraveled minutes later so we could start again. The classic childhood ouroboros: creation, destruction, repeat.
At some point, though, I stopped. I never got past the pot-holder stage, the beginner plateau where ambition meets a lack of tension control, and the yarn eventually migrated to the back of a closet, as forgotten as the recorder I learned in third grade.
But sometime this year, I realized I had drifted into the modern trance of double-screening — phone glowing while the television blared — and something in me rebelled. The next morning, I wandered into a local yarn store called The Dropped Stitch and found myself petting skeins of mohair in colors with edible names: “tarragon,” “licorice,” “pumpkin spice.”
I left with the pumpkin one, of course, and a new hook, and by that night I was sitting on the couch, tongue between my teeth, reacquainting myself with the basics: single stitch, double stitch, treble.
At a certain point, something shifted. I was no longer just playing with string; I was making fabric. Uneven, bumpy, full-of-heart fabric, but still: something that could keep you warm. It felt almost alchemical. Once I got the rhythm down, I began to experiment: a fringe here, a scalloped edge there, even the terrifying act of turning a corner.
There’s something deeply satisfying about that moment when you’ve finally mastered the bones of a new skill and can start to play. It’s the same thrill I get from a few bedrock recipes, the ones so deeply memorized they become launchpads for improvisation. Good pizza dough. Silky bechamel. Egg pasta that stretches like silk. Once you know those, you’re free to riff — to add lemon zest or nutmeg or a fistful of herbs — the culinary equivalent of adding fringe.
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That’s why I want to share what I think might be the perfect savory muffin. I’ve been quietly working on this one for months — a small obsession that started as a way to use up a half-empty carton of buttermilk and turned, somehow, into a quest. After many test batches and a few tragic crumbly failures, I finally landed on the right formula: soft white flour for tenderness, a scoop of cornmeal for texture, a heavy hand with black pepper and the powerful marriage of oil and butter, which together create a crumb that’s both plush and crisp-edged. There’s just enough onion and garlic powder to make the kitchen smell like breakfast at a good diner.
As written, the recipe needs nothing more than a generous swipe of cultured butter and a plate of soft scrambled eggs, maybe a rasher of bacon if you’re feeling traditional. But it’s also a dream of a base recipe — the kind you can build on endlessly once you’ve got it down. I’ve been playing with three variations lately: a classic corn, cheddar and bacon number; a butternut squash muffin with manchego and crisped sage; and a “farmers market” version that folds in roasted vegetables, goat cheese and a dollop of onion jam.
They freeze beautifully, reheat like a charm, and make the kind of cozy, quietly impressive breakfast you’ll be grateful for when guests are still half-asleep and coffee hasn’t yet kicked in. I already have a few batches stashed away for the morning after Thanksgiving, a small insurance policy against holiday chaos.
Here is the base muffin recipe:
Ingredients
1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour
¼ cup fine or medium cornmeal
2 tsp baking powder
½ tsp baking soda
1 tsp kosher salt
½ tsp freshly ground black pepper
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp onion powder
1 tsp sugar (optional, just enhances browning)
2 large eggs
1 cup buttermilk
¼ cup melted unsalted butter
¼ cup neutral oil
Directions
- Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line a 12-cup muffin tin with liners or grease well with butter/nonstick spray.
- Combine dry ingredients: In a large bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, baking powder, baking soda, salt, pepper, spices and sugar.
- Whisk wet ingredients: In a medium bowl (or large measuring cup), whisk together eggs, buttermilk and both fats (melted butter + oil) until smooth and lightly frothy.
- Combine gently: Pour wet into dry ingredients and fold together with a spatula just until no dry streaks remain. This batter should be thick but spoonable — like cornbread batter, not runny pancake batter.
- Fill and top: Divide batter evenly among muffin cups (they’ll be about ¾ full). Add toppings or crumbs if using.
- Bake for 18–22 minutes, until golden and a tester comes out clean. Rotate halfway for even browning if your oven tends to have hot spots.
- Cool for 5 minutes in the tin, then transfer to a rack. Sprinkle with flaky salt while still warm, if desired.
Once you’ve baked a batch or two, you start to see just how adaptable this little recipe is. The base can handle about 1½ cups of mix-ins, total — enough to fold through the batter without weighing it down. From there, you can go wherever your cravings take you: roasted vegetables, cheese, crumbled bacon, herbs, even a swirl of jam if you’re feeling cheeky.
(Ashlie Stevens ) From top to bottom, the fillings of the farmers market muffin, the butternut squash and sage muffin, and the corn and cheddar muffin
Here are three of my favorite riffs:
Classic Corn, Cheddar and Bacon
I fold in about ¾ cup of sharp cheddar, a handful of scallions, ½ cup of corn (frozen is fine; it roasts sweetly in the oven), and four slices of thick-cut bacon, crisped and crumbled. The corn hits first, a gentle, buttery sweetness that plays against the cornmeal’s subtle grit, while the cheddar melts into pockets of gooey tang. And the bacon — smoky, salty, a little crunchy — anchors it all.
Butternut Squash and Sage
For a more autumnal spin, I tuck in about ½ cup of cubed, softened butternut squash, a sprinkle of brown sugar, cubes of manchego, and a few torn sage leaves. A scattering of hazelnuts adds a buttery crunch, and I finish the tops with a light dusting of toasted Panko crumbs. The muffins emerge golden and fragrant, with warm, nutty, slightly caramelized edges.
The Farmers Market Muffin
This one is a little freer, a patchwork of whatever vegetables and herbs you have lingering in the crisper. My version includes a red bell pepper, chopped sun-dried tomatoes, ½ cup crumbled goat cheese, a handful of spinach and ¼ cup of onion jam. Everything bagel seasoning on top makes the whole thing slightly addictive: a crunch of sesame, poppy and salt that hits first, then the creamy tang of goat cheese and the sweet-savory onion jam. Each muffin is a little mosaic, bright, earthy and full of texture — a perfect morning or mid-afternoon snack.
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