I was supposed to be telling you of our spur of the moment cruise, the last hurrah before we take care of a little munchkin that will steal our hearts and energy, the final vacation before vacation is just life in a different location. Instead I come back with a tale of vacation havoc — words that should never be used together unless your vacation turns out befuddled, agonizing and making you wish you were in pre-term labor rather than battling the ruthless. We were going to be walking deck planks, using the excuse of my oversized load to steal some pool-side lounge chairs (which I hear go really fast), have an actual room with a view over Central Park (even if it is a miniaturized version on a boat) and get some sun to aid in my “glow” as I need to squeeze myself into a bridesmaids dress in less than a month, sigh, yes I know.

Instead I must tell you that I have no idea what cruising life is like, but after this experience I don’t know if I can say I am a fan — which is what you all really want to know isn’t it? You probably are thinking I will bemoan the buffet food, or perhaps you are wondering how I managed to stay upright and not hurt myself or the baby while being six months pregnant with unsteady sea legs and an already pitiful lack of coordination and balance. But that’s the thing. We flew all the way down to Miami, took a taxi to Ft. Lauderdale and proceeded to check in at the desk when this kind woman came up and started making conversation. Ahem, or so I thought. Her kind enquires about my mid-section soon became a nightmare as you can apparently be “too pregnant” at six months. Six months! We are still three whole months away from squirting this little person out, but say you are anywhere past 24 weeks and you are banned like the plague from the boat. And so we were left on the dock as our last vacation as young, childless, free adults sailed away without us (and our complete awesomeness plus half).

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A few months ago, when I was just starting to realize my lack of appetite actually was a symptom of something rather big, I became unimpressed with food. Unless it could fit inside a bowl, have milk poured over it and be called cereal it would sit unloved on the counter. Yes, perhaps I should have scaled back the spaghetti as no human in this house can eat all 12 servings by themselves. In 4 days or less. But on the occasion I felt eating would be good idea, I made breakfast. There were a lot of eggs, and the begging of a certain self-proclaimed master to make me (and his future child) his perfect cheesy eggs; a lemon pull apart coffee cake that I became suddenly uninterested in once it was cooling on my counter but fell in love with three days later when it was almost gone; bagels, which I might not have had if I did not hide a few from the egg man; waffles that put me one step closer to the deserving title of mom as my kid will no longer be deprived of butter pools before or after hauling a back pack off to school; cinnamon buns in which I ate more than the husband (for once); and now these here muffins. Really, I have become a breakfast machine.

But something must be done when you decide to buy 20-pounds of blueberries because your friend knew someone and could get the deal of a lifetime (and include you and your little growing sweet pea in the mix). Err, I’m talking about me here. Yes, I have 20-pounds of blueberries and I’m not quite sure what I was thinking. Freezing! For future baby food, or a blueberry baked good when we are snowed in with a wee one and mama needs a buckle. Pies! Because my in-laws keep telling me about a blueberry pie dance ritual this husband of mine does, and I have yet to see it after three years of marriage. Snacking! Smoothies! Cereal Condiment! Jam! Yes, I can come up with grand plans, forgetting that I now need the occasional nap because by the end of the day I’m wiped.

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As if I already haven’t aired enough oddities about myself, I really do feel the need to be completely honest with you and add one more to the bucket: my reading (ya know, the thing people do when they have spare time or an entire week of vacation and let themselves become fully enveloped in a good heart quickening, pulse-throbbing story) rarely involves hardbacks and/or numbered, chaptered, prefaced pages (unless you want to include the editors letter at the beginning of my shiny food magazines). My version, my longed for 5 minutes of nothing so I can sit down and delve into something juicy, really is something juicy. I read Epicurious. The food and wine section in the New York Times. A lengthy peruse of Food Network’s latest. Martha Stewart.

Almost like my addiction to reading cookbooks as if they were 600-page novels, my need to constantly find new, better, more awesome that the previous one I marked recipes is getting a bit “out of control” — if your name is Josh and you like to secretly judge me, but yet thank me because I make you delicious things like these here cinnamon swirly buns (ahem, with glaze).

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I am ashamed of myself for letting what seems like a bushel full of nectarines get to the point of overwhelmingly soft and squishily ripe.
I am ashamed of myself for never making waffles (read: in my life).
I am ashamed of myself for never rendering the above incorrect by pulling out the waffle iron a gracious friend gave to me over a year ago.
I am ashamed of myself for staying in bed way too late this morning, and this ending up as lunch rather than the jump start to my day.
I am ashamed of myself for being so ashamed of myself.
I am ashamed of myself for not being ashamed with myself.

Yes, these were my opening options for these waffles.

However, let’s skip the usual blame, justification, shame, circle I like to pull you through and in the name of Almost Hump Day discuss waffles. There are two decided camps. Waffle lovers and Pancake Addicts. Rarely do you find one person in both camps, but if you are me, and you happened to have gotten over your pancake fears and waffle fears in less than 6 months, then you certainly deserve a badge of awesome. I was a french toast groupie (actually, I haven’t left) but made room for another breakfast favorite when I discovered the simple way to make a pancake without the typical burnt exterior and liquid interior I seemed to be flipping out Saturday mornings. But there is one advantage I think waffles have over pancakes — dimples. Rivets. Dents. Whatever you want to call the little boxy indents across the surface of a waffle.

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In the words of Peter himself:

New York City isn’t the only place in the world to get decent authentic bagels. The truth is, you can make bagels that are just as good at home, no matter where you live. They’re one of the simplest breads to make, requiring only flour, water, salt, yeast and malt — and one secret ingredient: time (in the form of long, slow, cold fermentation). Any decent bagel shop knows this and uses an overnight method to stretch out the fermentation process, releasing all sorts of subtle flavors trapped in the flour. While bagel shops often use a type of high-protein flour, not available to home cooks to achieve that distinctively chewy texture, regular, unbleached bread flour can also do the trick. The real key is to use a much lower percentage of water than is used for baguettes and other European hearth breads, producing a stiff dough than can stand up to a dunking in boiling water before going into the oven. More than any ingredient or other aspect of the method, this boiling step is what defines the uniqueness of the bagel.

Now friends, after I read this, I immediately felt gypped because, What the heck! No one told me New York City had good, no great authentic bagels! I could have used that hint three months ago when I was there, in the heart of the Big Apple itself. Then I thought, hey, this Peter dude is promising just as good bagels at home, and well, you all know me, I’ll take just about any challenge*. Of course, I would be able to do a better comparison if I had known to eat a freakin’ bagel in New York, but sigh, all I had were these Peter bagels, which were surprisingly easy despite the four pages of instructions that went along.

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