We were a very frugal family when I was a kid.  Perhaps it was because my parents grew up during the depression.  Or perhaps because five children and one income necessitated a bit of frugality.  Whatever the reason, in our household indulgence was not encouraged.

It was pretty much understood that you took limited portions of anything, you were always expected to clean your plate and you did not ask for seconds unless it was offered.

That is except on the days that mom made bread.  Now you might think that it was the smell of baking bread that offered a hint of luxury.  Then again it could have been the soft, chewy dinner rolls that you knew were going to be on the table that night.  In many ways those things did represent a nod to something indulgent but the real treat, the over the top not to be missed treat, was the cinnamon rolls.

When mom made bread, she always kept enough dough for a batch of cinnamon rolls.  They were large and moist and loaded with brown sugar, walnuts and cinnamon; they were spectacular.  But what made this perhaps the most indulgent experience of my childhood was not the quality of the cinnamon rolls, but the quantity.

For some reason, probably only known to mom, there was no limit on the number of these luscious treats that we were encouraged to eat.  Mom always explained that the rolls just did not carry over to the next day very well; the flavor and textured diminished to the point that they practically weren’t worth eating.

We never really understand why the loaves of bread could make it through the week while the rolls could not, but we didn’t question it.  Instead, we gorged ourselves on that delicious pastry until we could eat no more.  I think I came to understand that the whole cinnamon roll experience was a gift.  Mom may have been a frugal woman but she appreciated a little indulgence now and then too, and really what could be better than a warm kitchen, a loving mom and all of the homemade cinnamon rolls that you could eat?