My Mother’s Rolls

Kathryn Durrant

My mother’s rolls were the star of Thanksgiving meal, not the turkey or pies. We timed the entire meal around the warm creations. They were so tempting that we couldn’t help reaching for one hot out of the oven, even though we knew we risked burning our ingers. It was a risk all of us were willing to take. My mother passed away ten years ago, I never thought to ask for the recipe while she was alive. I’d seen the stained card throughout the years at family Thanksgivings. It always lay on the counter, dusted with lour, just out of reach of the dough my mother would roll out to the perfect thickness. Over the years following her death, I searched for the recipe in the books I’d inherited from her. Sprinkled throughout the pages of her Betty Crocker cookbook and a few others, I’d found 3x5 cards in my mother’s handwriting. Good recipes, for sure, but never one I was seeking. By chance, my cousin mentioned Thanksgiving and my mother’s rolls to me as we reminisced about our childhoods. “You know,” she said, “that recipe was really my mother’s.” A tremor of excitement moved through me. “I didn’t know that.” I cleared my throat, not quite daring to hope, “do you have the recipe?” She couldn’t possibly have guessed how much a positive answer to this question meant to me after all this time. “Yeah, I can email you a copy.” I looked down at the printed email when it came as if it was a sacred text. Combine the lukewarm water and yeast. I sprinkled the tablespoon of tiny tan beads into the water and watched as they ruptured open. This action was a sign the yeast was alive and would grow. I set aside this mixture while I combined one cup of boiling water and one cup of shortening in a large bowl. So much shortening, I thought as the mound of white melted into the steaming water like a miniature iceberg. To this, I added salt, sugar, cold water, and four eggs before returning to the smaller bowl. The yeast had grown and was now lovely tan foam. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the heady yeasty smell before pouring it in to do its magic with the other ingredients. I glanced at my Bosch mixer. No, I gave my head a shake. My mother

mixed the lour in by hand, and so would I. I couldn’t risk not having them be perfect for modern convenience’s sake. First, the mixture clung to my ingers in a gooey mess, but with each addition, it became more dough-like until I could move the mass from the bowl onto the counter and knead it “lightly” as directed. I returned the dough to the bowl. My mother always said “Rise,” but the Great British Bake Of television show taught me the correct word for this step was “proof.” Still, I was following my mother’s recipe, so when I covered it with a dishcloth, I whispered the word, “Rise” like a prayer before leaving it to do its thing. My kitchen soon illed with the smell I remembered so well. Within an hour, I turned out the dough onto a “slightly loured” counter to roll it out to less than a 1/2 inch thickness. Memories looded my mind. My mother always used a drinking glass to cut out her rolls. There were times she let me do this part, so I knew just what to do. I took a glass out of the cupboard. I pressed down into the soft dough, making a circle. I could hear my mother’s voice, “Make them closer. Each time you roll the dough out, it will become tougher.” I aligned the glass as close to my irst circle as I could. Next, I needed to brush melted butter on one half of the circle. Growing up, my family wasn’t fancy enough to have a pastry brush. Instead, my mother would dip the back of a spoon into the butter and dab it lightly onto the roll. I got out a spoon and anointed each piece in delicious gold. Now the recipe noted, “Pick up each circle and stretch to an oblong shape.” With care I pulled and folded. My muscle memory took over. It was important not to crush the tiny air bubbles the yeast had provided. I looked at my rows of beautifully shaped dough on the baking sheet. They looked exactly like my mother’s. The recipe said that they needed to rise another 30 minutes. I draped a cloth over them as if tucking them into bed for a nap. I set my oven to 400 degrees. The taste of my youth was close. The rolls had doubled, just as they should. I slid them into the oven. “I’ll see you soon, my lovelies,” I said to them as the heat wafted up into my face. The recipe said, “bake for 20 minutes,” but I knew that was wrong. These were delicate creations needing a close eye. There would be no ordinary kitchen timer for these works of art. They only needed to be in the oven for as long as it took to gather everyone to the Thanksgiving table and quiet down enough so someone could say grace. I turned on the oven light and pulled up a chair to the oven’s window.

Already an aroma of baking bread illed the air around me and grew more intense with each passing minute. My mouth watered, and I took deep breaths. After an eternity of about eight minutes, they were lightly golden. I reverently pulled them out of the heat and set the baking sheet down. Out of habit, I reached out for one, even though I knew I might burn my ingers. After all this time, I knew it was a risk worth taking.