The long awaited day, has arrived. I have finally perfected the art of the cinnamon roll. No more spilled filling, no crispy dough, no over buttered (as if there is such a thing) pans. These babies are pure bliss--filled with that sweet aromatic product harvested straight from Madagascar. *I actually don't know if my cinnamon comes from Madagascar but I would assume as much. Just bear with me here. It's poetic, and stuff. And the frosting. The frosting, people. Ah. I can't.
Tackling this feat makes me want to take up arms and attempt the perfect chocolate chip cookie, or homemade brownies. The possibilities are endless. I could probably try bungee jumping, windsurfing, cliff diving. Maybe I will learn the guitar, sing in front of people, finally tackle all those programs on the Adobe suite, or brush up on that sad, rusty Spanish of mine. In the middle of my elation over cinnamon rolls, I realized that I had accomplished something that seemed at first to be cryptic and confusing and almost cruel. (Seriously, if your yeast has even been killed before the little babies even get a chance...you know what I mean.) Think about this one--we can do all sorts of things that at the first go around we would never think of being capable of. So yeah, it was only cinnamon rolls. I was in a kitchen. This is all very tame. But the idea is the same, is it not? Whenever there's something you want to accomplish, you might as well just cover yourself in flour, kill a bunch of yeast, burn a million pans of the things--and keep doing it--until you end up with a gloriously perfect pan of cinnamon-y goodness. It doesn't make sense to never try just because you've convinced yourself things won't end up as good as you want them to be. Just figure out what you want, work really hard, and go for it. Do not fear the cinnamon roll.
