Breakfast for us kids on Christmas morning was always cinnamon rolls: the soft, billowy kind with a simple filling of brown sugar and cinnamon and a sugary glaze, sometimes flavoured with orange, sometimes ‘regular’. We would eat from the outside, unwinding the layers bit by bit until the gloriously soft, sweet centre was left, saving the best for last.
Sometimes they were made from scratch, and sometimes they were the novelty kind from the supermarket, packaged in a cardboard tube designed to be smacked on the edge of the counter to open (what fun!), and then peeled one by one onto the baking tray. I still recall the smell: yeast, cinnamon and something chemical. For us youngsters it seemed the height of luxury to have this hi-tech alternative to homemade (and wiser Mom didn’t mind as she was a tad busy with everything else). We smile at those canned cinnamon rolls now in the same way we do at pop tarts and old hairstyles, with nostalgic respect for our former selves, but relief we’ve moved on. [Read More…]