My mother is able to stir up a batch of (insert favorite baked good here: cinnamon rolls, french bread, cookies, zweibach etc.) in a morning, or an afternoon, or an evening; in the minutes between needing to change her watering out in the garden, in the time it takes most people to watch the news, in the moments that others are looking through a magazine, in the time it takes me to get up the gumption to wash the dishes. She's one of those amazing time management professionals (and great baker!) that I think only exists after 1.) a certain amount of years on the earth; 2.) birthing a certain amount of children, and 3.) having spent a certain percentage more years being considered an adult than a child.
How many times from my childhood, or now in adulthood, have I awoken in her home to fresh baked __(fill in the blank here)__, the last loaf/cookie/roll/pan being taken out of the oven before I have even had a chance to brush my teeth.
So that was the inspiration.
Here's the reality: I'm not that person. (Yet -- I'm hoping someday I will reach that status.)
So this week, when the kitchen still looked like this after dinner,
I figured it was a perfect time to whip up a batch of my mom's famous cinnamon rolls.
So I cleared a spot on the table, to start the process. It was about 6:30 p.m.
Let me just take a moment here to note that I knew how foolish this was. I usually only attempt cinnamon rolls 2-3 times a year -- and when I do I make a quadruple recipe, it takes all day and it leaves my freezer full of pans. But just one batch... well I could be done with that in no time.
So, I started.
Oh crap. I need more flour.
Run to the store. Go down the baking aisle. Hmmmmm.... chocolate chip cookies would be good too. Pick up some more ingredients. Twizlers on sale? Yum! Milk, overpriced Lunchables for a special last day of school lunch treat, eggs, bread, butter.
Okay, better go pay and get home.
Kids-- let's make some chocolate chip cookies while the dough rises.
YUUM! Lots of dough was eaten.
Now, time to check that dough. Its been sitting for more than an hour. It hasn't risen.
Even with the good luck Elmo towel Lauryn decided to put on top ... still, no rising dough.
Let's start baking the cookies, I'll figure out what to do with this non-rising dough later. So in between batches, I attempted to clean up the now horrendous kitchen -- leftovers still sitting out, dishes scattered all around, clean dishes to still get out of the dishwasher... it was a mess.
I got distracted a few too many times. Some cookies spent the perfect amount of time in the oven. Others, did not.
Now its past bed time -- after a warm cookie and milk, teeth were brushed, books read, children tucked.
Now. About those cinnamon rolls. They haven't risen. Okay, can't let the dough go to waste, better just roll them out anyway.
After coming out of the oven, they looked like this:
They are supposed to be large and fluffy, instead they were dense, droopy and sad. But they tasted okay.
And I know where I screwed it up too -- my warm milk and melted butter was too hot. When I added it to the yeast mixture, it killed it. I knew it as I was doing it too -- but I hoped, prayed, believed.. that MAYBE they might still rise.) Sigh. At least the cookies were tasty. I cleaned up the kitchen, just barely in time to take a shower and head to work, far more tired than I should have been.
Oh, and did I mention that I did all of this with a thumb that I cut the dickens out of on Saturday, while chopping onions? Yeah, hurt like a .... well... it hurt. Perfect time to spend an evening kneading dough.
Sigh.
My only solace is that my own amazing mother will share similar stories of kitchen foolishness. I've even got one from my grandmother -- the night before she gave birth to her 3rd child, she canned how many quarts of tomatoes? Or was it that she baked dozens of loafs of bread? Or was it... okay, I'll have to confer with the family historian for the details, but you get the point. Was that really the best way to spend an evening, about to burst with your latest child?
Then again her bread probably rose.
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