I have a hidden talent that I've been really good at since I have memory. Though I can never remember the name of it, so I had to look up the definition of someone that attributes human qualities to non-human things. Take cats for example. And birds. I like to think that they have full on conversations with each other and that they talk about the weather and the last meal they had or the next one they'll be eating in a few hours. My mother used to tell me that I was very good at Anthropomorphizing. "What the heck does that word mean?!" I asked her as I tied a bonnet onto my Siamese cat called Cecil and wrangled him into my toy baby-doll stroller to take him on a walk around the yard like any proper cat mother would do.
We adopted our older cat Freya, four years ago for the purpose of her hopefully providing company for our son Andrew's cat Django. Django wanted nothing to do with her, so she curled up next to me and pretty much never left my side. A year later we moved up to our cabin and gave Freya strict orders to never go outside since there is wildlife outside with much bigger claws than she has. She has escaped a few times, but will always come quickly when I race outside with an open container of yogurt. She is obsessed with all things dairy. I remind her that yogurt and ice cream are only for inside kitties and she'd do well to stay inside where she's safe and sound. She gazes out the window for hours. I'm filled with guilt for forcing her into a life much like Rapunzel. Kept in a cabin, with a mother constantly telling her how dangerous the outside world is. Except she doesn't have long blonde hair, just glossy black fur. And I'm not a witch. Though I've had my moments that that could be debatable. "Hey Dave!, let's get Freya a kitten so she'll have a friend to play with and she won't care about going outside!!"
Freya is about as happy with her new kitten sister and Django was about his new kitten Aunt. Just really barely tolerant. But here we are. Double the cats, double the cat food and litter. Double the fun! But we haven't seen a mouse in well over a year. So at least maybe they've worked out a bit of a "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" situation. But now with all the mice afraid and nowhere to be found, I worry that they'll get bored. Dave is scooping cat-food into their bowls. "Hey Dave!, let's get birdseed for the feeder and put it right outside the window by the back of couch so the girls can bird-watch all day!"
I lug home a large bag of bird-seed for wild song-birds I purchased for ACE Hardware. Not five minutes after filling the feeder, we were getting little feathered visitors. The cats were riveted. I was mesmerized, "How do these tiny creatures stay warm in this snow and cold?" Dave asks me how much do I think we'll need to spend in order to keep creatures fed so they can keep other creatures entertained. "But if we don't feed them what will they eat?"
I sit on the couch and the cats sit side by side on the back of it. The three of us lost in our own thoughts. My parents had bird feeders and a pair of binoculars by the window. Is it an empty nester thing? This bird watching? Ironic that those of us with empty nests are watching wild creatures building theirs. Resting my cheek on my arm that is outstretched over the back of the couch, hot tears sting my eyes. What a strange limbo-like place to be in. My own parents gone, my children all gone now and building their own nests.
I had a very difficult day a few days ago. Every now and then I am completely overcome by grief. The loss of my parents, and the speed at which my little people grew up and away from me come to the surface all at once. Dave is so good, loving and understanding. He just holds me and lets me cry and doesn't try to fix anything. There isn't anything to fix anyway. The passage of time and life changes are inevitable. How we choose to move through them is up to us. One of my sweet friends called me the other day to just check in on me. She is a widow, and I didn't want to divulge to her what a difficult time I'd been having; I felt so embarrassed that my sadness could never compare to hers. "Oh no! That's what I'm here for! I totally get it!" She listened with her whole heart as I poured mine out to her. She mourned with me. After we hung up, I couldn't believe how much better I felt.
The holiday season can conjure up all sorts of emotions. Music transports me to different places and times; equally, so can certain foods.
Take cinnamon rolls for example. I haven't enjoyed a cinnamon roll for approximately sixteen years. I made the best ones too. Huge, fluffy, gooey, amazing ones. Every December I'd make them for Christmas morning breakfast; the yeasty, cinnamon'y aroma wafting in from the kitchen while children tore into their presents, building their appetite for our first traditional family meal of the day.
But there was the year we all got the plague. A few days before Christmas, a bug of some sort entered our home and took each of us down like little toy soldiers. One. By. One. The children stayed in the darkened basement on blankets in front of the T.V. I was too weak to make it down the stairs to even check on them. I would text the older girls to see how they were all doing. They'd give me the update on who had it the worst and which of them was taking turns helping the others. The only child that seemed immune from it was Andrew; it was his birthday but there would be no party this year; not unless we all sang to him while kneeling around the toilet. Our family friends found out about our state of misery and took pity on the poor child. They picked him up and kept him for days; even had a birthday party and cake for him. I don't think any of the kids even realized he was gone, until one day he returned when we were all finally feeling better. He'd had a blast. We felt lucky to have survived.
Although it was December and freezing outside, we opened the entire house up for a little while. Windows and doors flung open to let the crisp, cold breeze in and the demons of whatever had plagued us for nearly two weeks out.
I tried to redeem some sort of semblance of the Christmas spirit we'd missed by making a batch of cinnamon rolls. It was good to do something normal again and to see the children's appetites returning. They dug in with gusto, and I knew they were finally well. Such a relief! They turned out perfectly. I served one onto my own plate but I could only sit and stare at it.
For years the kids would ask me if I was going to make cinnamon rolls for Christmas. "Oh....we'll see....maybe I'll make a breakfast casserole or French toast or something instead...." Natalie asked me for my recipe, and she started making them herself. "Want one Mama?" I take a bite; truly she has mastered them and they are delicious! "Maybe I'll give them another try one of these days..."
One of these days finally arrived. A few days after Thanksgiving, I was cleaning out the refrigerator of our uneaten leftovers. The container of cranberry sauce I'd made was staring at me. "Oh well now YOU were delicious! We'll find a use for you!" Yes, I talk to the items in refrigerator on clean-out day, since it is my most dreaded task in the whole world and it makes it slightly more interesting to feel like working with a team. Team Allyson and the ingredients. "How's about we turn you into cranberry cinnamon rolls? Sourdough ones? 'Go Team!' I imagine the jar of starter, eggs, butter and flour cheer back to me. I told you of my previously mentioned hidden talent of anthropomorphizing Anthropomorphism is the attribution of human traits, emotions, or intentions to non-human entities.
I feed my starter and gather the rest of the necessary ingredients. Using sourdough this time, somehow makes the entire cinnamon roll making process entirely new and exciting. While I wait for the starter to rise with little wild yeasty gas bubbles, I get a spoon of cranberry sauce to nibble on and lean my elbows on the kitchen counter. I gaze out at what will one day be the view from our new kitchen addition. Something about cooking in this tiny space and learning to adapt to so much restriction, yet still create delicious foods has been good for me.
Maybe it was a good thing, all those years ago, I turned the cinnamon roll making over to Natalie. She has a family of her own now and they're making their own food traditions. I think I'll pull out my recipe folder this week. I like to look through the hand-written recipe cards that have been given to me by friends and family; so many of them bent and stained through decades of use. They are my go-to's around the holidays. I'm always a bit too ambitious, and pull too many of the same ones out year after year, intending to make all of them and then stick to my tried and true four or five.
This version of Cranberry-Orange-Cinnamon Rolls just might make it on the annual rotation. They were just the right balance of sweet/tart/rich/fluffy. They just beg to be baked and eaten on Christmas morning. I know because they told me so.
A nice strong recently fed starter should look something like this
This amazing cranberry sauce all rolled up and ready to rise then bake.
Browned butter glaze with real maple syrup and orange zest
After baking sprinkle the tops with a little Fleur de Sel.
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