I wasn’t going to bake. the radiator was knocking like a bad idea and Mae said the kitchen smelled “like old syrup and 1983.”
But there was prune juice in the fridge. Don’t ask why.
Martha’s carrot raisin muffins have lived rent-free in the back of my 1997 issue binder—creases, batter stain, a corner bitten off (don’t know by who). The page says “healthful.” The batter says glue. Still. Something in me wanted to prove it wrong. Or prove myself edible. Either works.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness makes these with wheat bran, molasses, raisins the size of regrets, and a full cup of prune juice. I’m not kidding. The kind of recipe that smells like someone’s trying to fix you. She stirs everything together and calls it breakfast. No frosting. No mercy. Just fiber and faith.
And they’re good. I’ll say it. They’re brown and heavy and weirdly honest. Like a kitchen confession in muffin form.
What I Did Differently (Raisin Sabotage)
First of all—I didn’t have prune juice. Who does? I used strong coffee and a splash of orange juice. Regret and citrus. Close enough.
Also swapped the raisins for chopped dates. Couldn’t look those raisins in the eye. Mae hates them. I flinched.
I added shredded carrot too. Because I couldn’t make something this brown without one flash of color. Or crunch. Or memory.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I melted the butter in the dented Dutch oven because I couldn’t find a clean saucepan. Still smells like burnt soup from last week. It hissed when the molasses went in—like it disapproved.
The bowl was too small. Always is. I cracked the eggs one-handed out of spite and dropped shell in. Fished it out with the tip of a knife like it meant something. It didn’t.
Mae came in mid-mix and asked if I was “trying to make those sad muffins again.” I told her no. Lied.
The dates sank to the bottom. The batter looked like potting soil. I scooped it into the muffin pan with the same broken 1/3 cup I’ve had since 2008. The part with the measurement snapped off. Still use it. Still guess.
They baked longer than I meant. The top looked like a crusted volcano. But the smell… the smell softened something.
A Few Things I Learned
Coffee makes it darker. Not worse.
Don’t stir too much. These don’t like overthinking.
(Neither do I.)
The crust matters. Browned edge, dense center. It’s a texture thing. A trust thing.
What I Did With the Extras
Left one on the counter for Mae. She took a bite, shrugged, and said,
“Less sad than last time.”
That’s as close to a compliment as I get before noon.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The oven door stuck when I opened it. The kitchen was hot. I stood there holding a muffin like it owed me something. It didn’t. But it gave me a moment of quiet.
That’s something.
If you want something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder.
FAQs
yeah. but they get a little denser. like emotional baggage. still good warmed up with too much butter.
then skip ’em. add nuts. or grated apple. or just more carrot. it’s not a courtroom. muffins forgive.
yes. in a good way. like something your body says thank you for, even if your taste buds roll their eyes a little.
sure. make regular muffins. mini muffins. one big loaf. whatever pan isn’t buried under last week’s mess.
sure. walnuts work. pecans too. just don’t let them take over. this isn’t their story.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart’S Yorkshire Pudding
- Martha Stewart’s Chocolate Whoopie Pies
- Martha Stewart’S Raspberry-Swirl Cheesecake
Martha Stewart Carrot Raisin Muffins
Description
Soft-edged, dark-hearted, and just stubborn enough to count as breakfast.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the bran mix: poured the bran into the green pyrex. added the dates, coffee, yogurt, molasses, eggs, vanilla. it looked like compost. it smelled like a kitchen from the seventies. let it sit while the oven hummed. forgot to preheat. swore. turned it on late—375, eventually.
- Prepare the flour situation: flour, baking powder, soda, salt. whisked it with a fork because the whisk was still dirty from pancake day. the bowl was too small. used the one with the chip. didn’t care.
- Bring it together: folded the dry into the wet. gently. then less gently. it got thick fast. like wet mulch. added the carrot because it needed light. the spoon didn’t want to move but i made it. didn’t overmix. didn’t underfeel it either.
- Bake like it matters: scooped it into muffin cups—used my broken 1/3 cup and guessed. batter stuck to the spoon like it was scared. filled them to the brim. maybe too full. maybe just right. put them in the center rack. shut the door. 28 minutes. maybe more. the tops puffed up and cracked like bad news.
- Finish and stare at them: let them cool. sort of. tore one open while it steamed. date stuck to my finger. it burned, a little. tasted like regret and brown sugar and something vaguely hopeful. gave one to mae. she shrugged. i smiled. that was enough.