Cinnamon rolls are a time- consuming endeavor — one that requires a certain steeling of the soul. Nana Bagel reminded me of this time and time again in my youth, and still I can never seem to start the dough until it is already too late. Make the dough for one hour. Let it rise for two. Prepare the rolls. Set them on the windowsill to proof. Bake before it is too late. Before I know it, the day is done and I am alone in the kitchen well into the night.
Now, as I knead Nana Bagel’s signature sweetbread dough into a durable, elastic body, its surface acts as a surrogate lover while Mr. Bagel’s supple shoulders are away. The clock ticks rebuke from the wall, and I reprimand myself. It is already 6:32 a.m. How will I ever have breakfast ready before the kids leave for school? comes a scream from my subconscious. The clock ticks once more in response, and the thought is stolen.
It’s theoretically simple. Keep the filling in; don’t let it well out. Wrap the dough until it is taut and perfect and the sticky mess of cinnamon is forever hidden from sight. No one likes a sloppy presentation — Nana Bagel was definite in that. I know that Poppy Bagel expected us to be a certain way, but when the time comes to slice the roll open, the knife trembles in my hand. I can never bring myself to do it — to let the filling bleed out, the viscera that I buried deep inside now on the verge of oozing to the surface. But time marches ever forward. The filling begs to be seen; my two little Bagels demand to be fed. I plunge the knife again and again into the dough, its skin squishing down and at last splitting apart un- der the pressure. I slice and slice until each layer is exposed and the cinnamon-sugar sweetness spills out onto the counter. A bead of sweat drips down my nose and onto the cutting board. The but- ter filling must have melted in the heat. The clock strikes seven; the children must leave in an hour. No time for the cinnamon rolls to proof. What have I left to proof? I realize that the answer escaped me years ago.
Nana Bagel taught me that the most important part of bak- ing cinnamon rolls is arranging them meticulously on the pan. No matter how recklessly they have been hacked apart, no mat- ter how much cinnamon butter gushes from their core, almost any imperfection can be assuaged with careful placement and a flourish of cream cheese frosting. I tuck away all the loose corners, wipe away any loose filling, and close my eyes in submission to the wave of heat that washes over the kitchen as I push them deep within the oven, the last lit hearth of my home.
Nothing to do but wait. The oven timer ticks down in sync with the kitchen clock. I feel my life has hardly begun. In the other room, my little Bagels play; I hope I can satisfy their hunger just once more.
Mr. Bagel is out. His pre-work rendezvous with his boss Amanda must be ending right about now. The oven timer keeps ticking. Nothing to do but wait. Wait for life to awaken this pale dough.
At last, they come out perfect. They never seem to reflect their creator. I will call for the children soon. I will. For now, I delay the inevitable ringing of my spent voice in a hollow kitchenette.
Anyway, here’s the recipe:
1. Knead sweetbread dough.
2. Spread cinnamon filling. Roll dough; keep it in.
3. Split dough; let it out.
4. Bake. Cover all imperfections.
Attempt to enjoy.
Abby is a "journalist" who has never told a lie in her life. She enjoys long walks on the beach, beating dead horses, and running content at every possible moment.
Amit is a cog in this machine. But doesn't everything run on optic cables or something?
