...hot cross buns...hot cross buns...
More than any other holiday food, I miss my grandmother's hot cross buns. (I also like the nursery rhyme song. It's terribly catchy.) Every Easter hot cross buns rose, up from the seasonal recipe grave. And after Easter dinner, my grandmother would scoot us out the door of the big white house on Charles Street with zip-lock bags full of leftovers. I didn't care about the ham. I wanted those buns. They were the next week's breakfasts and snacks and my mother made fresh frosting for each. Fresh powdered sugar frosting! Did you hear that?
Today, I missed hot cross buns.
I have missed them before. I have tried to raise the cross myself. I have failed.
When I was in college in San Francisco, there was a horrifying attempt involving a doubled batch and killed yeast. Those crosses were not raising that day. No sir. They littered the small flat's kitchen like little accusatory X's -- you killed us! I was my grandmother's recipe's Judas...
And today I betrayed again.
I kissed memories and didn't even get silver.
With scars yet to heal from the San Francisco disaster of 2004, I could not bring myself to try yeast. No. No, you see, I learn from my mistakes. I would bake some little Irish Soda Bread buns. Quick bread. No yeast. I could do this. Throughout the afternoon, I moseyed up a recipe. And as I set the little cornmeal dusted crossed buns onto the parchment paper lined tray, placing them into the oven to bake, I felt a sense of pride. I had redeemed myself. But my self-redemption didn't last. This body was not to be broken for me.
There were two eggs still sitting on the counter.
I hard boiled them.....