My daughter said she wanted to make cinnamon rolls.
For the holiday brunch I was mounting.
On the last day of Chanukah.
Which coincided with Christmas Day.
But, unanticipated was that every moment was booked.
Reserved for meals, voice lessons, promised games.
So, she gave the timing thought.
Resolved to make the dough before dinner.
Let it rise.
Roll it flat.
Fill with cinnamon, butter, sugar.
Form a cylinder.
Cut slices.
Let them sit in a buttered pan in the refrigerator.
Till morning when they’d rise a second time.
Alas, both refrigerators overflowed.
With leftovers, staples, new dishes for the party.
So, the unbaked rolls went to share space with the car.
In a garage that registered five degrees Fahrenheit.
Where they froze, constricted.
Became cinnamon dough ice sculptures.
I rescued them before dawn.
Put them in a closed oven to prevent drafts.
No change.
Shifted them to a shelf in the sun.
Near an oven that was heating latkes.
What to do next?
My daughter was frantic.
This is embarrassing, she whispered.
Everyone will think I’m a bad baker.
Which was completely untrue.
She baked yeast breads regularly.
Don’t worry, I attempted to reassure.
The yeast died in that garage, she moaned.
No, I countered. You can freeze raw yeast dough.
It just needs time to thaw, then rise.
So, she set about thawing it.
Opening the hot oven so the heat drifted into the room.
Then, placing the buns into the oven.
Leaving them inside to pre-heat with the oven.
Till the temperature rose to 350 degrees.
Through the glass, watching them expand, swell.
Sniffing cinnamon.
As they filled the pan, browned.
Turned into swirls.
She pulled them out.
Iced them with cream cheese and sugar.
To the applause of everyone.
The star dessert!
Never lose heart
when your dough shivers, freezes.
Just warm it, indulge it.
Let it puff when it pleases.
Lynn Benjamin
December 27, 2022
