Thanksgiving Morning

I am an idiot. Though I'm at death's door, exhausted, and now officially diagnosed with bronchitis, I couldn't bear the thought of pop tarts or donuts for breakfast on Thanksgiving Day. How could I sully this day with a cheap fast breakfast that has about as much culinary intrigue as a bowl of cereal?

So I stayed up late the night before and made a recipe of dough, slightly sweetened, butter as the fat. I always make bread by feel. I maybe followed a recipe the first year or so of my cooking life. Now, I guess it's just one of those things. You know how much toothpaste to put on your brush, and you know how much liquid to add to the flour to make dough. I had it in my head that I would make cinnamon rolls, so I made a mixture of softened butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and apple sauce. After the first rise, I rolled out the dough in a rectangular shape and slathered with the mixture. Roll it up like a jelly roll, slice into 2 inch rolls and arrange in a buttered springform pan. I sat them out on the enclosed back porch overnight on a 30 degree night. They rose only slightly. I brought them into the kitchen to warm up while I preheated the oven to 375 degrees. I have no idea how long they baked, but when I checked on them later, I knew they were perfect.



These rolls rose a bit more in the oven, just beginning to edge over the top of the pan. After allowing them to cool a bit, I opened the springform pan to reveal the golden brown glory beneath. They were breathtakingly gorgeous. Breaking them apart into "servings" (they were enormous) gave me great pleasure because I could see the very light and yet stable crumb. I added a glaze made of powdered sugar and a bit of milk. Michael and I had ours with a cafe latte. And we ate every bit. The kids seemed pleased, but barely made a dent in their rolls. Now, that is a breakfast worthy of Thanksgiving morning.