Most Mundane of Things (A Memory Evoked)

"Well, get down on the floor and roll then!"

It was his usual response when I would ask for rolls.

These, of course, were not just any rolls. They were my grandmother's fabulous, irresistible, famous, cinnamon rolls. I was a picky eater as a child (and not much has changed as an adult), and the kind to eat around any sort of edge and insist that the crust be cut off my toast. But with mammaw's rolls...well, the ends were a delicacy all their own. Extra masses of the cinnamon gooey goodness would settle at the ends of the pan, and so the end slices then had an extra helping of the crunchy sweet cinnamon goop on them. And I loved it.

Making the rolls was a process. It involved massive preparation, completely taking over the kitchen with pans and bowls and wax paper. She had it down to a technique, and I remember watching in fascination as my mother participated in the ritual on one occasion. Rolls in various stages of the process were strewn around every inch of the table and counter. There was dough in bowls, dough being dipped into butter, dough rolled and twisted, dough in pans, and a few pans in the oven. She would hum to herself, or chatter on with my mom, as they made huge trays of rolls. The event easily engulfed the whole day, and once done, she had trays upon trays that would be taken down to the deep freeze in the basement. Then, on a special occasion...a pitch in at church, Christmas, or even us just spending the night...she would dig out a tray, pop it in the oven, and we'd wait impatiently for them to be ready.

So, at breakfast time, I knew there would be rolls. I laughed at my grandfather's response. He laughed at my laughter.

Decades and two thousand miles away, it's been a long time since that moment. Small knicknacks, a few treasured pieces of kitsch, came along the ride with me from my grandmother's farmhouse. But sometimes it's the most seemingly ordinary of things that can stir a memory.

A fork, an item for daily mundane use, unexceptional except for a bit of detailing at the base. For some reason the etching always reminded me of vines or flowers, but close inspection has lead me to think the design was instead intended as a leaf. This particular set of silverware was always my favorite as a child--and I would insist on using one of these forks when having a cinnamon roll. I can recall one time all of them were dirty, and being disappointed at having to use a fork from a different set. Now, when I hold one in my hand, for just a moment, I am reminded of those cinnamon rolls. The smell wafting from the oven, the crunch of the outside quickly followed a sweet softness, my grandmother humming softly, a pitch in at the church near my grandmother's house...all drift rapidly through my mind. It's a simple thing, really just a fork, but in a way that's what makes it's effect so profound--that such a commonplace item so easily evokes such a deep memory inside me.