First off, let it be known that I am a breakfast kind of person. My daily pilgrimage across the Yard at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m., guided by the divine promise of Colossal Crunch and bananas, has become a ritual. Once in the d-hall, I inhale the array of oatmeal, pastries, and fruits, enraptured. The plethora of food is my early morning paradise. I shall not want.
It is thus most unfortunate that my inner state of bliss must inevitably be jarred by the sight, smell, and feel of a specific monstrosity—the muffin top.
I am talking about that most reprehensible, fat-inducing item: that crusty, congealed cap of puffed-up pastry that taints the otherwise beauteous buffet of breakfast foods greeting me in the morning.
Now, I am not usually one to discriminate based on appearance. I have heard all the moralizing maxims before: don’t judge a book by its cover, and the like. I know from past experience that once you gather up enough courage to pry off the unpalatable top of the muffin, you are soon rewarded with nectar and ambrosia all at once. But must such a cruel punishment be endured to reach the reward? After all, I would rather not have to see a mass of what bears an uncanny resemblance to coagulated vomit and road- kill mixed together and baked for 20 minutes on my plate. I have seen enough of that on random street corners during late-night fuel-up runs to Noch’s.
Muffins are scrumptious pastries deep, deep, deep down. So please, muffin makers of the world, stop shortchanging them and leave them topless, for good.