Cinnamon rolls

When I was younger, I’d sit at my grandma’s kitchen counter and watch as she made cinnamon rolls. The dough was always the perfect shade of beige and never stuck to her fingers as she manipulated it to the proper shape, ready for the rolling pin. A handful of flour from a bottom drawer (I’ve always wanted a flour drawer in my kitchen. It seems so much easier than a canister or bag) and a few flicks of her wrist and it would be a rectangle ready for butter and a brown sugar/cinnamon mix. She made it look so easy and they were always perfection. Like a taste of love and her no-nonsense way of taking care of us each summer.

I haven’t made them in years. I can’t remember the last time I dug out the recipe that was the closest she could come to exact measurements. Everything was by sight, feel or smell with her. I needed numbers. It was on a stained and slightly faded index card with a piece of dried dough from another attempt on one corner and my teenage handwriting. Circles over the i’s and everything.

The signup for the ward girls camp fundraiser made the rounds in Relief Society so I impulsively signed up for cinnamon rolls. Dustin had never tried mine and I knew I could foist the rest off on my dad if we couldn’t eat them. They also freeze really well and that’s actually how dad prefers them as it brings back memories of sneaking one from the deep freeze before grandma could catch him. These take about 3-4 hours to make though and were needed for the fundraiser on Wednesday which meant I couldn’t make them over the weekend or they’d be slightly stale. Tuesday became the day of the project.

Alex helped with the ingredients and I explained how to break an egg as he made a face at the yolk that ended up on his fingers. He asked to taste the dough and seemed amazed that it tasted like bread. I broke a bowl that wasn’t up to the task of me lifting it with one hand after the dough had doubled.

I don’t form the rolls like she did. I make mine into a snake and then slice it like they do at Cinnabon but I kept losing all my filling when I folded it in half and made slices before twisting the dough and making the round roll shape. I think she’d be okay with me not wasting the yummy filling.

The apartment smells like a bakery. It smells like summer at grandma’s. She died a few years ago but I can see her in her kitchen at the farm as she tried to measure the ingredients for me and letting me feel how warm the water for the yeast and the smoothness of the dough.

I miss you Grandma. My cinnamon rolls aren’t as good as yours. Maybe its all that extra love you put into them.