We've evaded the dreaded fog of Delhi thus far but today, on Christmas morning, it caught us right and proper. This morning when the dog and I slipped out, we had barely walked ten steps before a white curtain descended behind us and the house was obscured. It was eerie; it felt like we were the only two creatures in this suddenly white, smoky world.
We carried our world with us, like snails. No sooner did the white curtain before us part, that the one behind us fell and our world remained the same size, just large enough for the two of us. Trespassers came in the form of determined morning walkers and Panda growled menacingly at them till they passed.
We returned home shivery. They were pleasant shivers, not all due to the cold, but rather the sort you get when you stay up late in the night to finish reading 'Dracula'. Being so alone is only pleasant when you know, that right behind that curtain of mist, is home. Or in Panda's case, breakfast.
I had just the elixir to dispel the shivers, pleasant or otherwise. I had spent the hours between ten and one the previous night, reading, writing, and making cinnamon rolls. I had intended only to make the dough, allowing it to rest in the fridge, but I found myself rolling it out, filling it with cinnamon and sugar and butter and rolling it up again. The house was silent and everyone was asleep and I do love the scent of cinnamon, so I figured, why wait. Thanks to my midnight industry, I woke in the morning, smelling cinnamon on my hands.
So it was that I had a platter of rolls in the fridge, all proofed and ready to be baked. They swelled and turned rosy in the oven, as I whipped up a coffee-caramel-butter glaze to paint them with. Panda, surfeited with a giant breakfast, came sniffing enquiringly at the kitchen door. Two sticky rolls, that I unraveled with my fingers and shared with the dog, and a steaming cup of coffee later, it was a very merry Christmas.
The Pioneer Woman's Cinnamon Rolls
Step by step recipe here.