Cinnamon Rolls

For many generations, my family was always known for their famous cinnamon roll recipe. The recipe was always kept a secret in my family and was passed down from mother to child. When I was a little boy, I always remembered waking up to the fresh scent of cinnamon greeting my awakening senses and seeing my mom in the kitchen wearing a white apron tied around her waist. She would smile brightly at me as she showed me how to make the special recipe step-by-step. At my age, I felt disinterested in learning and I never listened when she carefully taught me how to cook the delicious dessert.

    I didn't start showing interest until one sunday morning, in the summer, when I received a phone call from the hospital. My mother has fallen very ill and the doctors are struggling to find an effective treatment. They told me to come by and see my mom at noontime. In the meantime, the doctors said they were going to try to get more help.

    I set the phone down and felt as my eyes started to fill with tears. I went to the kitchen and set out all the ingredients needed to make the special cinnamon roll recipe.  It would mean a lot to my mom if I were able to successfully make the recipe to continue on the family tradition. I regret all those days I wasted not learning how to cook to continue on the tradition that meant so much to her. I set out all the bowls, pans, and utensils I could find. I felt as if all the ingredients were grinning at me in a challenging manner. I felt intimidated but I have to try especially for the sake of my mom.

    I grabbed the largest bowl and tried my best  to remember the correct portion of every ingredient. It was as if I were a witch creating a magical brew that would save the world. Any little mistake would ruin the entire batch. I combined sugar, butter, salt, yeast mixture, and two cups of flour. I mixed and mixed and watched as each ingredient danced together in perfect accordance. I kneaded the dough like a cat would knead a blanket and I put it aside to prepare for the icing. In a separate bowl, I poured in sugar and watched as the little crystals bounced around the surface. Finally, I mixed in the final ingredients. I was reminded of the times my mom would let me lick the spoon when she made the frosting; it was my favorite part. I loved watching as she mixed the icing for the final touch of the sweet dessert. I placed the buns of dough in the preheated oven and watched as they slowly cooked into the perfect golden complexion. I carefully took them out and drizzled on the icing in a nice smooth blanket on top. I was finished.

Lastly, I tasted the cinnamon rolls to discover that they tasted very well but just not the same as I had remembered. I knew this batch would be no good. Frustratedly, I threw the entire batch in the garbage. I felt hopeless but I knew I just couldn't give up. I tried again and again but each batch was another failure.

By noontime, I took a trip to the hospital to visit my mom. I brought my last attempted batch of cinnamon rolls and I prayed they would be enough. When I arrived, my mom's face lit up into a big smile. Her expression quickly turned to shock when she realized the cinnamon rolls I had brought her. I explained to her that I tried my best to bake them but I couldn't remember the recipe as well. Tears formed in my mom's eyes when she tried the sweet cinnamon rolls I had brought her. I set the tray aside on a nightstand and held her hand when she finished eating. I sat with my mother and she smiled to me one last time before closing her eyes and her hand soon became limp. I felt my own eyes fill with tears but I kept on holding her hand. A while later, a nurse stood in the doorway urging me to go home. I let go of my mother's hand and gripped my own in a fist. Strangely, I opened my hand to see a little folded piece of paper. I unfolded the sheet to discover the family recipe
for cinnamon rolls written out in ink.