I have a new confectionery addiction: homemade cinnamon rolls.
I’ve made the Pioneer Woman’s cinnamon roll recipe several times now. It makes 45-50 rolls per batch. Somehow, my family and I have plowed through dozens of cinnamon rolls since Christmas. And I think I ate most of them. How did that happen? They are just so stinking good, especially when I remember all of the ingredients (I was so caught up in the active yeast rising process that I forgot the leavening agents my first go-round, but was able to salvage them). Most cinnamon rolls don’t have enough icing and develop a hard exterior. These are swimming in icing. They’re moist and spongy and perfect. Every bite is like that coveted bite in the center of your regular old cinnamon roll.
In the last few weeks, my addiction has really taken an alarming turn and I’ve found myself having two cinnamon rolls a day for an unmentionable number of days in a row. But hey, two cinnamon rolls a day keeps the doctor away, no?
Two cinnamon rolls a day keeps the doctor employed?
Well, I’ve been working out more (successfully) in recent weeks, too, so I’m sure it kind of cancels out. Kind of. I am happy to report that I’ve found a new class that’s slightly less lethal than circuit blast called “sculpt.” The only part that made my arms feel like straws was the diamond push-up sequence after 45 sets of arm weight exercises. Other than that, the group exercise approach has been going well.
Last week, however, I suffered a minor setback in the midst of a cinnamon roll binge. I pulled my groin putting on my yoga pants to go to sculpt. For real. I’m not sure if this is a reflection of my flexibility, coordination, physical fitness level, or an indication that my pants are too tight. Maybe all of the above? Maybe a sign from God to lay off the cinnamon rolls?
I just went to hot yoga and feel like I’ve been wrung out like a sponge. In a really good way.
I think I’ll have a cinnamon roll since I’m already wearing my yoga pants.
Y’all come back,