- Area: Humanities
- Program: Composition
- Type of Writing: Fiction/Creative Non-Fiction
- Course Level: 1000
- Year: 2019
- Paper ID: H.E.F.N.126.96.36.1997
A Thief in the Night
July 7, 2019
A Thief in the Night
It was in the early hours of Sunday morning when I was working my usual weekend grave shifts at the recovery house. It was this time of the morning, with the quiet and soft lighting, that I always felt was the hardest to stay awake. I couldn’t watch a movie, or I would fall asleep, so I had to find something to do that got me moving. Usually it ended up being either painting or baking, this morning it was baking.
The big gooey ball of white dough sat right in the middle of the huge granite island in the kitchen. It smelled deliciously like yeast and flour. I had just tipped it out of the bowl where it was proving when I realized that I forgot to flour the countertop first. I had to find a clean measuring cup and walk over to the pantry to get a cup of flour before I could roll out the dough, cover it with butter and cinnamon-sugar, then roll and cut it.
“What are you doing?” a sleepy voice said from the other side of the living room next to the kitchen.
It was Breanne, our newest housemate, and as far as I could tell a serious insomniac. Her short and spiky brown hair was almost plastered to her hair on own side and sticking straight up on the other side. It looks like she put only half of her finger in a wall outlet.
“Just making some bread. What are you doing awake? Do you need anything?”
“You’re making bread? Like homemade bread? No, I’m ok. I just need some water and a snack,” she said as she made her way to the large stainless-steel fridge.
“Well I made bread dough, but I was going to cover it with butter and cinnamon sugar for some cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Do you like cinnamon rolls?”
“Yes! I’ve never had them homemade before though, I’m sure they are going to be delicious,” she said while trying to muffle a yawn. She sat down at the kitchen table with her feet tucked under her, almost like a cat curling up to go back to sleep and watched me as I spread softened butter all over the now flattened rectangle of dough.
We both sat in silence as I finished spreading the butter and started sprinkling the cinnamon-sugar on top. The sweet smell of cinnamon-sugar filled the kitchen, I loved making cinnamon rolls. And over the months of making them once a week for the house, I had perfected the recipe. Even changed it into orange rolls or sticky buns. The sticky buns were a particular favorite. But who couldn’t love buttery dough covered in more butter, brown sugar, pecans, and bacon? I started to roll the dough to get that beautiful swirl that is the main characteristic of a cinnamon roll. I got my ruler out and cut a small indent every inch of the roll and set to cutting the rolls out. I got them all cut out and set them carefully into the already prepared casserole dish. The last two end pieces I left on the counter, to throw away when I start to clean up. I covered the dish with plastic wrap and set it to rise on the edge of the counter.
From her perch on the chair, Breanne broke the silence with a question. “Why aren’t you using those pieces?”
“They are the end pieces; they don’t have as much butter and sugar on them and they wouldn’t fit in the pan anyway. I’ll just throw them away.”
“So, can I have one?” she asked almost timidly and somewhat shyly.
“I can put them in a tiny pan for you if you just want your own individual ones.” I said confusedly. “You are more than welcome to the big pan I just made once they are cooked, they are for everyone.”
“No, I’ll just take one,” she said as she got up, came over, and quick as a hawk, and swiped an end piece off the counter. She held her limp ball of almost cinnamon roll clutched in her talons and turned to go back to her room.
“But it isn’t cooked, it’s just raw dough. And there are eggs in it. I could make you sick!” I tried telling her, thinking she was just joking. But she just waved over her shoulder at me and was already closing the door to her room.