I reached for a new tube of toothpaste earlier this evening (Colgate Total, if you must know). As I stood in front of the mirror, idly pretending to wait the recommended 30 seconds before the electric toothbrush beeps, letting you know you’ve mastering your dental hygiene and may move from the top to bottom teeth, the flavor of it walloped me. It was minty, like all toothpastes (unless you’re five and brushing with Tom’s of Maine Silly Strawberry, as one does)—but a very specific sort.
It tasted precisely like the Certs mints that my aunt used to stash in the glove box of her old Saab. I’d come over to spend the night and we’d climb into the low bucket seats to do errands. We’d drive around the leafy streets of Ruxton and Roland Park, stopping at Eddie’s Market for a black bottom raspberry cheesecake muffin or at the wine store to pick up tonic water and wedges of Brie and Carr’s water crackers for happy hour.
The car smelled of sun-worn leather and some faint trace of perfume that I couldn’t name. I’d wait patiently to see if she’d reach across me to pick up the roll of mints. The Certs came in a shiny green foil wrapper; each one had a slight depression in the center, but no hole, such that when you let it sit on your tongue, it would dissolve down to a thin wafer.
The mints were bumpy with tiny green sugary crystals that reminded me a bit of Pop-Rocks. I was only seven or eight, and being offered a mint was tantamount to conferring the honor of adulthood upon me. They were more exciting than candy, and I was a kid with a ferocious sweet tooth. (I’m not alone here: Apparently there was a famous Certs ad featuring two people arguing, one claiming “it’s a breath mint!” and one saying “it’s a candy mint!”)
One taste of that wintergreen toothpaste took me back to those afternoons so quickly and so vividly—further proving the transportive quality of scent.
For instance, two years ago I was standing in the campus bookstore on Main Street in Hanover, New Hampshire waiting for the cashier to ring up my purchase (one ruled notebook, two tubes of Burt’s Bees chapstick, and a tin of ginger-flavored Vermints). I stepped to the side, distracted by a display of make-up and lotions, and picked up a bottle of Clinique Happy perfume, spritzing it lightly on the inside of my wrist and bringing it to my nose.
The smell was so deeply familiar that it tugged at something deep down (sometimes I picture all my moments lived tucked within me like so many Russian nesting dolls). I was flooded with the sensation of sitting in an uncomfortably stiff plastic chair in an airless carpeted room just off of the parish hall at St. Thomas Church, the beautiful brick and white-washed church we attended on Sundays growing up.
In seventh grade, I spent an extra hour each week at confirmation class. Don’t be fooled into picturing that as a lofty and spiritual event: As far as I could tell, it was nothing more than an excellent excuse to sneak glances at the cutest boys in my class (shout-out to Andrew Watkins and his impossibly perfect blond hair flip) while debating how many Keebler fudge stripe cookies I could pocket outside at the refreshment table before my dad picked me up.
That year, I wore Clinique Happy for what I deemed perfume-worthy occasions: mixers, Memorial Day cookouts, football games. (Now that I think about it, I wore Clinique Happy anytime I thought I might be near a seventh grade boy, which in retrospect was misguided, given that I doubt a heavy hand with bergamot and freesia-scented perfume was really going to sway a 14-year-old boy’s affection in one direction or the other.)
But now, just catching a brief scent of it, and I could be that age again in an instant. Standing in the bleachers of a football game, the trees hazy with foliage, the adrenaline of socializing.
Or, at a dance in the school gym, the floor slick with yellowed varnish, the royal blue curtains that we used to segment the floor in between volleyball games and badminton exercises pulled off to the side, the lights dim, the figures moving clumsily on the dance floor, the clusters of boys in khakis huddled by the table with the bowls of Cheetos.
There’s a cafe called D’latte in my town that serves coffee and sandwiches alongside a glass case of Italian gelato and shelves of fancy imported pasta and local honey for $20 a jar. Behind the register is a high row of baskets set on a rack. Each basket has a different type of muffin: blueberry, apple cinnamon, triple berry, and morning glory.
When you order the morning glory, the cashier drops it languidly into a small paper bag and hands it over as you fumble for your credit card. In the time it takes to slip the card into the slot the wrong direction, apologize profusely and reorient the card, catch sight of the thick slab of hazelnut banana bread at the register and debate out loud whether you should get one “for later,” decide you shouldn’t and exchange a few humorous quips (okay you thought they were humorous) with the guy behind you about the wisdom of having enough baked goods around, the muffin will have already left a grease-soaked imprint on the outside of the bag.
Buttery stains on the bag is a very promising sign when it comes to breakfast pastries. The first time I took a bite—the craggy, firm crust breaking off to reveal a deeply moist interior studded with raisins and shredded carrots and flecks of spice—I was overwhelmed by the fragrance of it. I could place nutmeg and cinnamon and maybe allspice. Certainly ginger.
My mom used to make a bran muffin that was heartier than these, and certainly more wholesome, but carried the same heft and toothsome-quality. Hers were darker and smaller—I imagine she used molasses and likely some wheat germ, along with raisins.
I flip through my files of her handwritten recipes. I find a banana bran muffin (with raisins, pecans, and mashed banana) and a curiously named recipe called “muffins with crunch” which calls for Raisin Bran cereal and chopped nuts. Neither is the one I’m remembering as I hold the D’latte morning glory muffin up to my mouth, inhaling the scent and craving the density and comfort of those muffins she used to make.
Nowadays, about half of what I bake is vegan, so I tried my hand at a muffin that would combine the pleasure of those morning glories with the size and scale of the little bran ones from my mom. While it doesn’t replicate either one exactly, the recipe yields a very excellent, very snackable muffin that freezes beautiful and makes a good breakfast.
If you like more crunch, add 1/2 cup of toasted millet or Grape-Nut cereal to the batter. If you like more sweetness, add 1/2 cup of raisins.
**Note: You can make these NON vegan by using 3 whole eggs in place of the aquafaba.
Vegan Morning Glory-Ish Muffins
Makes 9 muffins
1 cup (120g) all-purpose flour
1 cup (113g) whole wheat flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup (148g) granulated sugar
3/4 cup (148g) vegetable oil
2 tablespoons molasses
1/2 cup aquafaba (liquid from canned chickpeas)
2 cups (198g) grated carrot
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Line a standard muffin tin with papers. I like to make 9 medium-to-large muffins, so I just fill the remaining wells with a bit of water (adds a little steam to the baking process and protects the pan but not strictly necessary)—you can also make 12 smaller muffins if you prefer. My rule of thumb is to fill the wells up almost all the way, which you can do with these vegan muffins as they aren’t very high-rising so you don’t need to worry about them overflowing.
Whisk together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, and salt.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the sugar, oil, molasses, and aquafaba.
Add the wet ingredients to the dry and stir until just combined.
Fold in the grated carrot. Scoop the batter into the prepared muffin tin and bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until just turning golden brown on the tops.