Monday, April 11, 2005
One huge sticky bun and her babies
There you go... you leave yeast, milk, sugar, salt, eggs, cinnamon, apple, and flour on the table, and innocnetly turn your back on them, and what do they do for being taken off those shelves in the supermarket... are they thankful? Not a bit of it. Take your eye off them for a moment and they are at it.
Getting themselves all whipped up, and beaten together. Who would have thought of mixing sugar and cinnamon and butter. It is just not done in polite circles. What would the neighbours think if they found out? I think there must be a law against it. I suspect it is outlawed in all of the southern states of America. Promiscuity that's what it is.
But that is not enough... all this wetness and stickiness and the profusion of spice in that heaving dough... that is not sufficient... that is not shocking enough... they have to turn the heat up until it's tropical... until it is swealtering hot. Anybody would think it was a holiday romance or something, and we all know the end result of passion in a hot oven.
One huge sticky bun and her babies, that's what. The shame of it all. I will have to eat them all before anybody finds out.