Something I'm thankful for...

Every Thanksgiving it's my job to make the dinner rolls. It's a long process involving multiple risings and a big mess, and I love every second of it. I love the smell of milk and honey, of yeast and flour. I love the sticky mess on my fingers and the melted butter in the bottom of the pan. I love watching the dough rise as if by magic and the beautiful brown color and smell of the rolls as you take them from the oven. Most of all I love the memories it brings back.

My paternal grandma taught me to make these rolls when I was a very little girl. I was so little that she'd put the giant ceramic bowl on a stool and bend if half while she mixed the dough so that I could help stir. She taught me the "feel" of good dough and just how to push it through the circle of your thumb and index finger so that your rolls will rise high and smooth and uniform.







She also taught me how to make her cinnamon rolls with their complicated twists containing cinnamon and sugar and caramel coated crispy bottoms.






But most importantly, by teaching me her secrets, she was telling me how much she loved me.

And, although she's been gone a long time, when I make these rolls, I feel like I'm telling her the same thing.