claiming our daze and our days on the prairie
as i write, i am starting to smell warm cinnamon. so many people speak of watching their grandmothers or mothers baking and then following those memories to recreate the goods. while i have watched my grandmothers and mother and mother-in-law bake many things, it is my husband that i have watched bake cinnamon rolls. he loves to bake and is gifted at it…which may be why i never do it.
but in response to micah’s daily laments that we “never have cinnamon rolls,”
that we “never have store stuff for breakfast…only home stuff”
that we “always have to have the same things like eggs or oatmeal or cold cereal or toast or smoothies or fruit or bacon or peanut butter bread,”,
and because i absolutely love cinnamon rolls myself, i am baking some.
i saw my hands do what jerry’s have. i remembered the steps by remembering his moves. i patted and rolled and stretched. i rubbed soft butter on with the palms of my hands. i sprinkled in rows the cinnamon and sugar. i worried that the dough would stick and smiled to myself when i could roll it so easily.
then not knowing where he keeps the floss he uses, i took my own road and sawed them apart. oh, let’s hope they turn out. and yes, i have set the timer, so at least they won’t be burnt.
dear micah, may the sweet smell give you sweet sleep.
i’ll feed you in the morning.