Over the holiday weekend, the weather was blustery and unkind.  We had planned to spend Saturday in the city getting some much-needed shopping done, but after looking out of the windows and looking at the online weather warnings, we decided to bunk it at home.  It was an experience unlike any other.  We all had NO PLANS, and so we sat at home doing whatever came to mind.  Thanks to the overcast weather and falling snow, I was compelled to break out my Pioneer Woman cookbook and try my hand at her cinnamon rolls -something I’d been dying to do for over a year but had never been brave enough.

I don’t care for cinnamon rolls.  They always look so inviting and wonderful, but when you bite into them? dry.  All anticipation comes crashing down, no matter how much you microwave it (the roll.  not the anticipation).

These rolls were different.  They were moist and soft and absolutely delicious.  The only problem was: the recipe made exactly 51 cinnamon rolls.  It used up every single pan in my house that was somewhat cinnamon-roll friendly.

Now let me take you back…

Last week, we had a Valentine’s Party for preschool.  The kids wanted a pink butterfly cake, and I was going to bake sugar cookies for them to decorate.  But I got sick the weekend before the party.  I bagged the sugar cookie idea.  I bagged the butterfly cake idea.  Instead, we had cake mix cookies (made out of strawberry cake mix) and we decorated them as if they were sugar cookies.  I made a batch of frosting, and the kids had a blast.

I made the frosting in my favorite stainless-steel bowl.  My husband’s grandmother gave it to me as a bridal shower gift, and I treasure it.  It has a ring on the side of the bowl, and no matter where I’ve lived, I’ve always kept that beautiful bowl hanging on my wall in very close range to my cooking area.  My husband used to use it for popcorn.  It didn’t bode well with me.

“Are you telling me I’m not allowed to use that bowl for popcorn?” He asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “It’s mine.”

“You mean it’s … ours,” he said.

“No.” I shook my head, “It’s mine.  Your grandma gave it to me as a bridal shower gift and I use it all the time and when it’s not hanging in it’s spot I get cranky.”

It’s not characteristic of me to impose rules on my husband, so when I do he generally takes the hint that I’m not to be trifled with.  Besides, the rules I do give generally have to do with kitchen duties and really there’s only two rules.

#1) Don’t use my mixing bowl.

#2) If you’re going to interfere while I cook by telling me I need to measure ingredients, I will unkindly escort you out of my kitchen.

Anyway, the kids didn’t use all of the frosting.  I covered it tightly with Cling-Wrap (material of the gods!) and put it in the fridge.  The next night, I was exhausted.  We did scriptures and prayers with the kids, and Trent went right to sleep.  Lacy did not.  I put “The Princess Bride” on her TV to help her drift off, about 2 hours later, she woke me up.  Her movie was over.

I stumbled out of bed and started it again, mumbling at her to go to sleep.  I should’ve just turned the dang movie off, but who thinks straight in the middle of the night?  Later on in the night (I’m not sure how much later because I’m too blind to see the clock and too tired to put my glasses on), she was by my bedside again.

“Can I have some juice?” She asked.

“Yeah,” I mumbled and promptly fell back asleep.  I was awakened again by a noise coming from the kitchen.

clink, clink, clink…

I’d heard that sound before.  My foggy middle-of-the-night brain registered that it was the sound of my prized mixing bowl -the ring it hangs from hitting the side of the bowl.

clink, clink, clink…. SLAM

My eyes popped open.  My brain began registering facts more quickly: mixing bowl, frosting, fridge door slamming… LACY.  I squinted in the darkness to see the silhouette of my daughter, clinking as she went, pat-pat-pattering into her room with a big bowl of frosting.

“Lacy!” I hissed, so as not to wake up her dad, “NO!  What are you doing?”

“Can I have some juice?” She asked, innocently handing over the bowl of frosting.

She got her juice.

Now back to the cinnamon rolls: what do you do with 51 cinnamon rolls?  A few days before, my husband had expressed a sincere concern for my health -er, lack of health, I should say.  Something’s amiss with my blood sugar, I think.  In any case, my 25 year-old body acts more like a 55 year old body at times.  Given that we’d both like for me to bear children again someday, I need to take better care of my body.  Read: I need to give away cinnamon rolls so I won’t eat them.

We took a pan to grandma.  We took a pan to my folks.  We took a pan to my brother.  We divided up individual rolls to this person and that person, saving only 2 pans for ourselves: one small pan and one larger pan for our Sunday breakfast and after-church snack.

Saturday night, I covered the big pan in tin foil and I nestled up to watch “My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend” with my husband (a good movie, by the way, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.  Word to the wise: only watch it once.  If you watch it more than that, Alyssa Milano’s mouth may start to grate on your nerves).  From the kitchen, I heard the rusting of tin foil.  I ignored it, hoping it would go away.  I didn’t.  It got worse.  Soon the rustling sound gave way to a tearing sound.  At that point, I sat up to go stop the tearing but I was too late.  My son came bolting out of the kitchen, holding a big pan of cinnamon rolls at a 45 degree angle over his head.  He clutched the pan in a small space where the tin foil had been ripped away.

The best part?  He didn’t take his eyes off of his parents as he b-lined it for the sanctuary of his bedroom.  Honestly, I’ve never seen the kid run so fast on his tip-toes.  Maybe he thought if he held the pan up high enough, we wouldn’t be able to reach it.  He was wrong.  And as I took the pan out of his hands, he WAILED loudly so as to let all nations, kindreds, tongues and people know that HE HAD BEEN WRONGED.

It probably wasn’t in the interest of good parenting to give him a roll, but I did.

It was in the interest of my sanity, and that counts for something.

Now that you’ve read through the entirety of this post, I have to say: I feed my children.  I feed my children well.  I don’t know why they hoard sweets in their room, but I suspect it’s because they’re on the normal side.