If I WAS on a roll, it would be a cinnamon one, and not the pearl-sugar-dusted dry but cinnamony Swedish kind, chastely nestled in its round of paper. Oh no, my roll would be a double-thick squishy one, packed-with-cinnamon, slathered with white oozy icing, that sinks beneath your teeth and makes them ache with the sweetness in the first bite.
Or one of the Pillsbury buttermilk dinner rolls that come out of the oven with their tops and bottoms all golden brown, just tinged with fire, and their insides softly white and ready to receive a small pat of butter that will melt and then drip slickery and salty on your fingers. O! how I miss Pillsbury products. And Sara Lee. Just the thought of the taste of a Sara Lee pound cake tosses me back into my childhood with a whoosh. And my mom's Bisquick drop biscuits, with their moisty innards steaming as you break them open.
Ode to bread, that's what's coming up, apparently.
Oh bread, why must you be so good and yet so very, very bad?
I worked in a bagel deli for 3 years in college; I could sing an ode to bagels if I pleased. The silver rolling racks with shelf after shelf of rolled dough: white for plain, yellow for egg, beige for wheat, coral for cheese and pale pale lavender for blueberry. The big bowl of the boiler, the conveyer belt for drying, seeding, salting. The huge oven with its gaping blasted mouth rimmed in black, each rolling shelf turning past, the baked bagels suddenly dumped and sliding into the bin beneath to cool.
Sing the praises of bread with me: O Panini, Focaccia, Baguette! Sing rye, sing pumpernickel! Croon cooooornbread. Serenade the sourdough. Chapati, tortilla, brioche and O! for soft german pretzels. Ba da ba da ba da...bagel!
Cake-ity Bake-ity Cupcakealiciously Delicious Birthday Wishes to blueberrymoon!