Apply all the terms above. Liberally. |
For weeks now, Alannah has had her mind on one thing: Cinnamon rolls. (Or buns, as some would call them.) Personally, while I've enjoyed a good set of buns here and there, they've never really been anything I craved. But pull me out of America for a couple of years, and all of a sudden, a factory-processed Cinnabon from the mall – or even one of those nasty Svenhard's sticky buns from your typical roach motel continental breakfast – starts to sound pretty good. If only for the sheer novelty.
Anyway, Friday night, as we were killing off one of those all-made-from-fabulous-fresh-products dinners, Alannah had some dough rising. No big deal. She's always kneading things and making them rise after all. She's the baker. Saturday morning, I woke up from my Bordeaux haze to the scent of cinnamon. Lots of cinnamon.
I ambled downstairs to get caffeinated and what was on the counter? Something you'll never see in even the most daring boulangerie-patisserie in Paris:
Ladurée's got nothin' on this. |
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