The Wax Paper Incident

A Cinnamon Roll Story

I want to begin my cinnamon roll story with the wax paper incident. The inflection point that reminds me, regardless of practice and experience, something waits to trip me up.

As a kid, just watching my mom’s calm and skill, set the bar high. Her deft, long-fingered and elegant hands transformed dough into enticing shapes.

I’d sit finishing my breakfast while Mom rolled out pie dough in a rhythmic pattern on the kitchen table. She’d fold it twice, lay it in the pan, trim, turn under, then work around the edge with a knife handle, making an indent and crimping it with thumb and forefinger.

Those were my first lessons. Simply watching. Not only observing but initiating a desire to bake. To emulate and learn. Because once you start baking, you’re always learning. That humble attitude of the beginner is essential. An acceptance of trial and error.

In junior high, I took the proverbial home economics class. We studied how to measure and level, double-check ingredients, and consider the inner texture of a muffin for its density, gaps and holes. 

I made a lot of cookies and cakes at home then. I discovered joy in precise measuring and the sort of chemistry experiment of it all.

So began the long transition where I baked alongside my mom, gradually helped her more, and finally became her hands.

I remember when she brought out her beloved cinnamon roll recipe. It stands out, a moment, almost a presentation, that thing you can’t name although you recognize something significant as you’re watching it happen.

“This is my sweet roll recipe that I use to make cinnamon rolls,” Mom said.

Always the teacher, she explained that sweet roll dough is like bread dough only with some sugar added to the flour mixture. She showed me how to prepare the yeast – never stir it until it’s soaked for a few minutes in lukewarm water – and how to mix the dough and let it rise.

At last I got to participate in what had mesmerized me as a child. Over the rolled out dough, we spread the filling ingredients: butter, sugar, cinnamon, walnuts and raisins. Up to each corner and edge, she had me portion out the filling. She nudged me to ignore the recipe measurements and be generous with the cinnamon.

Then with the biggest, sharpest knife, the meat carving one, I got to cut the rolls. From all those times observing Mom, I still can hear the knife slicing, strangely metallic and slick, through the spongy dough. Each piece nestled in the pan “cut-side down” revealed a spiral of dough and filling. 

Years later, Mom found a new recipe, “Edna Mae’s Cinnamon Rolls (from Cody, Wyoming).” We kept in the nuts and raisins from our old recipe, but the big flavor change was brown sugar instead of white in the filling. Our new hybrid recipe was a keeper.

As I became the mom of growing girls, my charge on Christmas Eve morning became the cinnamon rolls (lately naming it “National Cinnamon Roll Baking Day”). Mom still coached and kibitzed – “be generous with the walnuts and raisins,” “you missed a spot,” and always, “needs more cinnamon.” She didn’t know to warn me about the wax paper.

You think you’ve mastered a thing, learned to roll up the filled dough snug enough to keep the nuts and raisins from sneaking out, learned to be patient and let the second rise take all the time it needs, learned never to forget the raisins again because that one time it was such a pain inserting them into the unbaked rolls. Still, some faulty tool, ingredient or general distraction offers a new lesson and returns you to your humble baking beginnings.

In Mom’s kitchen that Christmas, ready to roll out the dough, I found a different brand of wax paper in the drawer. I suspected nothing. It wasn’t until I started to lift the edge of the filled dough to roll it up that I found this particular paper…clung. Even though I’d covered it first with flour, the paper wouldn’t let go. The harder I tried to pull it off, it not only stuck but tore into smaller pieces.

No bad words could fix this. I’d invested too many hours in the making, not to mention all the filling ingredients and dough. What a waste. I couldn’t throw it out and start over. 

I picked and poked at that dough, dreading that I’d ruin its tender texture. No one wants a bite of paper in their sweet roll, so I persevered. After a painful delay, I set the rolls to rise and then into the oven.

We were all relieved when they turned out as good as ever, which is the fun of baking. No matter how many times you make a recipe, it’s always new.

If I’m honest and go a bit deeper into my childhood memories, occasionally I hear Mom swear under her breath at a pie dough that unfolds off-center in the pan. Mainly, I observe the rhythmic, meditative quality of her working the dough and the easy trial and error essential to the process. Nothing to fear here.

It’s never occurred to me to give up, only to get more practiced and attentive to learning until I’ve gained competence. Experience balances out the no-guarantees promise.

So I always triple check the raisins, insist on quality paper. And I accept that something homemade may show a few flaws. Perhaps that enhances its authenticity.

When my baking is at its best, it’s really about enjoying the process and creativity as much as the results. When something goes wrong, it’s a chance to learn something new.

I hope this is what my daughters observe, that and how I treasure our time baking together - passing on traditions, learning, sharing the give and take of advice.

So it’s become for me. Seems like Mom still looks over my shoulder.

“Let’s add more cinnamon.”

~ Lee

Enjoy our family recipe for cinnamon rolls, combining the best from my mom’s original sweet roll dough and Edna Mae’s recipe.