A cool, rainy morning. There are grasshoppers outside singing, hiding beneath browning grape leaves, watching droplets explode like tiny bombs. My windows are just barely cracked to let in the exhale of fresh, stormy air. On the kitchen counter sits a shiny sheet of parchment paper dusted heavily with sorghum flour. A long rectangle of pastry is waiting to be patted down with spiced coconut sugar. Logan is boiling water for coffee in a sauce pot. We left our kettle, tarnished with frequent use and love, at my parents beach house.
I’m bleary-eyed, following along with my recipe, hopeful that this trial will turn out. I want cinnamon rolls that feed my spirit as much as my belly. That remind me of yellow gingko leaves drifting through crisp air. Of reading late into the evening cozied up in a soft sweater. Of driving along back roads to watch the autumn mountains turn amber and gold. I have high expectations.
I don’t think it’s too much to ask. I always want to create real food recipes that are both delicious and approachable. Including baked goods. Why post a recipe for such a thing unless I’m sure it’s a contender?
I pop a glass plate of cinnamon-laced swirls into the oven. 20 minutes (give or take) later, I’m smothering them in frosting. I dig in. My knees buckle with happiness. And Logan gives the teary eyed oh my god of approval.