Saturday Baking

When I was in elementary school sometimes on a Saturday I went to a friend’s house to play. She and I had fashion dolls that were precursors to Barbie, who hadn’t been “born” yet. We played with those. We rode bikes. Once we were allowed to carefully cross the highway and fool around with some kittens that belonged to her neighbor. My friend’s parents were a lot younger than mine were. I was a late-in-life baby who came along when my mother was 40. In those days and in small towns especially, people married young. My friend was her parent’s firstborn so when she and I were about 8 her mother was likely in her mid 20’s while mine was pushing 50. It felt odd. My friend had a younger brother and sister and I think her mother was then a stay-at-home mom, though I know she did work when those kids were older. I remember every Saturday her mother baked. Sweet rolls and pastries of one kind or another. A wonderful yeasty aroma filled the house. On Saturdays her dad came home for his afternoon coffee break instead of staying at work. It was a small town and he could zip home, have sweet rolls, and still get back in time. I was a shy kid and never spoke to her dad that I can recall but I remember him sitting at their kitchen table in his coveralls and looking contented while he chatted with my friend’s mother and had coffee and homemade baked goods right from the oven. I know nothing about their personal life but it seemed almost idyllic to me. When I remembered this, it wasn’t Saturday but I figured that wasn’t relevant and I made cinnamon rolls from scratch.

Photo courtesy TastyLens at Pixabay.com