Last night, I made cinnamon rolls. I’m not a huge fan of cinnamon rolls, per se, but this recipe was included in Mario Batali’s sexual misconduct apology letter, and so I feel compelled to make them. And of course, the glaring question is why? Is life suddenly a pizza rolls long, depressing SNL sketch?
Do these cinnamon rolls somehow destroy the patriarchy? Does the icing advocate for equal pay? I figure the only way to answer these questions is to make the damn rolls. Never one to pass up on a pun, my husband doesn’t bring me flowers, but flours.
Good baking, I’ve been told, comes from love, and treacly as that sounds, I find some truth in it. Good baking means being able to roll with setbacks and mistakes and ovens that for some reason run twenty degrees hot but only on Sundays, a metaphor so aligned with loving someone that it feels almost too obvious. Good baking requires an attention to detail and care that is hard to muster when you just don’t give a shit or you are distracted by your own rage. Good baking means you have to trust yourself. I find myself fluctuating between apathy and anger as I try to follow Batali’s recipe, which is sparse on details.
Batali notes that you can either buy it, or use his recipe to make your own. I make my own, because I’m a woman, and for us there are no fucking shortcuts. We spend 25 years working our asses off to be the most qualified Presidential candidate in U. Donald Trump is President, so I’m making the goddamn dough by scratch.
I use Batali’s recipe that he’s linked to, which I’ve made before, and I’m already hesitant. I feel like he’s shoe-horning it into a dessert where it doesn’t belong. He’s cutting corners because he gets to cut corners. Batali specifies a thickness, but no dimensions, which is strange if you’re making a rolled dessert.
There are pieces missing here, and I’m trying to fill in the gaps. The result will be sub-par because he hasn’t provided all the information, and I will blame myself. I baste a layer of melted butter over the dough. A guy on Twitter tells me that I’m a vile man-hater. His feed contains a photo of my very-alive husband wearing a feminist t-shirt. I sprinkle the sugar and cinnamon over the top.
One of the producers I’d been working with closely walked up to the table. He and another male staff member laughed while I stood, holding a piece of cake in each hand, dumbstruck. Batali does not specify how tightly to roll the dough. I do so too tightly because fuck everything. I remember the time another producer walked his fingers across my lap while I was typing at a computer. I turned to stare at him, and he grabbed my badge which was clipped to my waist. I wanted to see how your last name was spelled.
I think I’ve used too much dough. Tell me why you need it. Over and over until it broke me. If they are edible, I will eat every single one of these fucking rolls myself.
Batali says to cut them in slices roughly three inches thick, which is too wide. The rolls should not be that thick. I know this is wrong, but I do it anyway because that is what the recipe says. I am not following my gut and cutting them thinner. If I had, I suspect the results would have been better. But for most of us, going off book isn’t an option. There is no estimation of how many rolls the recipe should yield.
My husband hovers close by, doing a little excited jig. Few things delight him like elaborate desserts made for no apparent reason on a weeknight. But he soon links the pieces together and stops dancing. These are those cinnamon rolls, aren’t they? I put them in the oven. Because I’ve rolled them too tightly, the middle pops up and out of one of the rolls.
One of the cinnamon rolls has a fucking erection. The recipe calls for too much icing, and the result is that the rolls are drenched in it. The pizza dough does not mix well with the sweetness. The icing is sickly sweet, the rolls themselves oddly savory. I hate them, but I keep eating them. Like I’m somehow destroying Batali’s shitty sexist horcrux in every bite. I remind myself that is not how recipes work.