cinnamon buns - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Ron's cinnamon buns where the players of my heart strings, a sweet soothing song for Sunday afternoons with tea.
Cinnamon buns from the corner bakery were as decadent as any gateaux. Each one was as large as a side plate with gooey cinnamon filling. Cream cheese icing covered the golden tops so heavily that it was tough to take a bite without getting an icing moustache. Every morning around ten saw Eve walking to buy just one bun. If it wasn't fresh baked she felt cheated somehow; only with it being decked to the nines with cream and sugar could she resist treats for the rest of the day. When the baker saw her cross the threshold of the store he picked up the bun he'd been saving just for her. "Eve!" he would say, "this one is a monster! I've never seen a cinnamon bun so big. I think it broke my oven!" Eve would smile, how well Emile knew her. Her chances of ever being disappointed with his baking were almost zero.
Cinnamon buns had sounded like such a treat, but when Flora took a bite is was like eating a cinnamon dusted bath sponge. The dough lacked the silky softness or the lightness she expected; there was no buttery after taste almost hidden by a cinnamon explosion. After eating just a small piece she reached for her water, anything to rid her of the dry and slightly stale taste.
Cinnamon buns were Autumn's achilles heel. She only had to see one to stop in her tracks. Should the aroma reach her before an intervention could be staged all was lost. She'd walk into the bakery with all the self restraint of a zombie after a bite of fresh arm and buy not just one but four. After that it was all about finding a park bench or a low wall to perch on, any place she could be still and close her eyes while she savoured the first one. On a good day she'd get all the way back to her apartment for the next instalment, on a bad day she'd demolish the whole box.
Cinnamon buns made from scratch were April's nemesis and elixir all in one. Just to inhale their sweet aroma was enough to flick her switches into autopilot. If she spied them first at least she stood a chance, all the better if they weren't iced. She never had a problem with the sad looking buns under cellophane, the rectangles of six in the supermarkets. Comparing a bakery store or homemade batch with those would be akin to comparing fresh pasta in a cheese wine sauce with boxed mac 'n' cheese.
The cinnamon buns had risen from their muffin pan casings like unfurled telescopes. Inside the delicate swirl of butter-rich dough were apple chunks coated in the cinnamon sugar. Before they'd been out of the oven a full minute there was an empty spot in the tray and Rose was nowhere to be seen. River shrugged, taking her theft as a compliment.
Haywood began to salivate at the mere mention of a cinnamon bun. They were his soul food, the treat Granny used to make. Ivy smiled to see him pop up and down on the toes of his sneakers, eyes lit up better than a christmas tree. As usual her buns were spreading cartwheels, swirls of gold and brown. The icing was drizzled on in zigzags, dripping down the sides where the points met the edges. Haywood started with the small icing pools on his paper plate as Ivy knew he would. For the next few minutes there would be no chit chat. All his concentration went into the bun, into the flavours that took him back to an earlier stage of his life.
The cinnamon buns are criminally easy to make and a crime for my waistline. My tastebuds however disagree, they say they're heaven and so a compromise must be reached. Twice a week I put in a cup of warm water, a beaten egg, two teaspoons of dried yeast, four tablespoons of sugar, a teaspoon of salt and a quarter cup of butter. Then I sieve three times the three cups of flour, mostly wholewheat, with a table spoon of vital wheat gluten. So easy, so quick. Once the dough is set the buns are inevitable. Rise for an hour, roll it out, cover in warm butter, sprinkle in cinnamon and sugar. Roll, slice, rise for two hours and bake at 375 for 15 minutes. Then then the family eats the lot fresh from the oven, no left overs. And God, doesn't the house smell glorious. Partnered with a cup of fair trade coffee it's the perfect guilty pleasure...
Rose took a bite of the cinnamon bun expecting it to feel and taste like the ones River made. Where his was gooey, this bakery offering was dry. There was no stickiness, no need to lick her fingers or make faces of mock embarrassment as she developed mitts of cinnamon and cream cheese icing. Eating the bun to completion felt like a duty to not wasting food rather than a compulsion. She tucked it back in the brown paper bag and decided that perhaps she should take her brother up on his offers to teach her some recipes; and when she did his cinnamon buns would be top of her list.