Just a miniature little thing,
In my miniature red apron,
I stood on a chair pulled up to the counter top & watched the art that was forming in front of me.
Now, my mom didn't cook but boy, could she bake.
Sweet, doughy creations were the smell of home.
But my favorite of all these were the cinnamon rolls [with no icing I might add].
The cinnamon rolls that took an entire day to prepare,
The dough resting on top of the TV in the orange mixing bowl with a towel draped across,
& then from the kitchen, I'd hear about how I was walking too heavy and the dough was going to fall [was this just a myth to get us to settle down in our playfulness?],
Either way, I took no chances and sat quietly anxiously awaiting my favorite part.
And then it was time.
Time to punch the dough with my bony little fists in my miniature red apron.
& now, I have a family of my own.
In my own kitchen, I call on my mom for her special recipe,
Vague memories of watching her at work flash back as I try to create like she did.
To create those precious cinnamon rolls that were like pure honey to the lips and filled the home with the most delectable aroma.
I try my hand at the art,
Some of the steps a bit hazy in my memory,
But the one thing I didn't forget was to walk softly as to not cause the dough to fall.
And wait for the best part,
The part where I get to punch the dough with my slightly larger fists in my black&white apron.
