You Can Call Me Martha

I know Dave likes to receive phone calls like this from me:

Dave-"Hello?"

Me-"I JUST STARTED A FIRE AND ALL THE SMOKE IS BILLOWING INTO THE HOUSE!"

Dave-"What are you talking about?"

Me-"There is SMOKE, filling our HOUSE!" *cough* cough*

Dave-"Open the damper."

Me-"Your Mom opens the damper. Where the hell is it?"

The rest of the conversation is just a blur of instructions, apologies, and an explanation.

As I was reading the paper this morning, I noticed a recipe for Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls. Being a lover of all things pumpkin, I decided that my morning would be spent in an quest for successful yeast attempt.

I love to cook, but have never been able to make yeast work. I have always attributed my failures with dough, to a lack of a knack for details, and in fact had sworn off the stuff, after my last attempt 5 years ago ended badly.

That fateful day, I walked into my kitchen after a quick trip to the store, to find my unattended bread maker had danced its way off my counter, and into a thousand pieces on the floor. That's when I decided God invented Rhodes frozen dough, in an effort to make his remedial housewives feel good. Done and done.

I started the fire this morning, in an effort to have a warm place for the rolls to raise. And despite having all the doors and windows open, to air out the house, the area in front of the fireplace stayed toasty warm. The rolls, raised, along with my dough self-esteem, and by this afternoon, I had some lovely, homemade cinnamon rolls that you could almost smell through the campfire aroma, lingering in my hizzle.

Martha Stewart, look out.