I fixed cinnamon rolls on Saturday morning for the first time since before Christmas. In fact, only a few weeks ago did I throw away the remaining Pillsbury tubes that lingered from 2010.
(My refrigerator is a veritable scavenger hunt.)
Our family once enjoyed cinnamon rolls on a weekly basis, every Sunday morning. I put them in the oven, and Robb frosted them after they finished baking; I did the before and he did the after. The eight rolls divided evenly among the four of us: three for Robb, two for me, and 1.5 for each of the boys.
I could hear him in my head, nearly feel his presence at the kitchen counter. He was a master at frosting cinnamon rolls - he turned it into a careful science of temperature, consistency, and balance on top of the roll. He believed strongly in his technique.
It's been a while since I've done something for the first time, encountered that bitter taste of fresh remembering.
I frosted them like a novice, and I served them up on three paper plates.
There were three cinnamon rolls left in the pan.