I’m going home for Christmas, so won’t be around for a while. I leave you with one of my guilty pleasures, and Christmas memories. About twice a year I break down and buy a roll of Pilsbury cinnamon rolls from the refrigerated case in the grocery store. I love these things. Probably more than your homemade cinnamon rolls or the corner bakery’s cinnamon rolls – which are vastly superior, but I don’t care.
I delight in pressing the edges of the cardboard seams after ripping the paper off the tube, and popping the package open with a bang. I like actions with amusing and rewarding results. Similarly, I enjoy popping champagne open. (Ooh, gotta try the two together!)
I inherited a vicious sweet tooth from my mother and my granddad, so when the rolls are baked, you better believe that every ounce of the icing gets slathered on the hot rolls. I then eat the entire pan. Maaaybe one or two gets saved for later. (Do you think the reduced fat variety I buy helps?)
So, where’s the Christmas connection?
On Chrismas morning, after all of us kids plundered the toys Santa left for us, my mom, too tired from staying up and putting all the toys together to make an extravagant breakfast, would pull Pilsbury cinnamon rolls from the oven and serve them with hot chocolate. I think I looked forward to the cinnamon rolls just as much as I did the presents.
The Pilsbury cinnamon rolls only played a part in the Christmases when we were little. I guess after we figured out the truth about Santa (I was the last in the know), Santa didn’t have to work so hard, so could make a real breakfast.
What that real breakfast was, I don't know. I have no recollection of any other Christmas breakfast. (I also have no recollection of any Christmas, period, during high school. I'm not sure I was alive during high school.)
At any rate, I kinda wish we still ate Pilsbury cinnamon rolls for Christmas breakfast.
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