It's been a wonderful Mother's Day. This morning Maybelle and I slept until we naturally woke up, we did some dancing in the living room (she thoughtfully cleared away all the dolls and school buses and other things cluttering the floor so that we'd have room), and then we went and got some cinnamon rolls.
Let's talk about cinnamon rolls. They're made at Wildflour, just a few blocks away from us, and they're only made on Sundays. They're about the size of the human head, and they are fantastically delicious. Maybelle loves them, as do I. She's been asking for them recently, so I thought it would be a perfect Mother's Day breakfast.
We biked to Wildflour at about 7:45. I put Maybelle in clothes, but I wore my pajamas--I figured, hell, it's Mother's Day, and I'm visibly a mother! We joined the line of about 20 people on the sidewalk, waiting for the bakery to open. Fortunately, I had called in our order at 7:30, so I knew that they wouldn't sell out of cinnamon rolls before we got ours.
We brought our two cinnamon rolls home. We split the first one. It was the perfect Mother's Day brunch for me--starchy, overly sweet, yeasty, very little nutritional value. Mmmm. And then I was full. Like, full full. I thought I might vomit, but managed not to.
And Maybelle said, "More cinnamon roll?"
"More! More cinnamon roll, please?"
So I hauled out the second cinnamon roll. Despite the fact that I was feeling a tiny but over-full, I had four bites of the second one. But only four bites. Please notice the remains of this cinnamon roll:
I felt certain that she would vomit, but she didn't! She did have one hell of a sugar rush, though. A happy Mother's Day for both of us.