cinnamon roll fail

I didn't have the heart to take photos.  Evidently the top of the gas fireplace pilot light isn't warm enough.  Flat cinnamon rolls don't quite make it, though they were tasty.  So I tried another batch, rising it in the oven like the KitchenAid book suggested. Great rise!  Beautiful rolls!  I over-baked them.  I had to soak the pan in a sink full of hot water to get the bread part out, and the cinnamon-sugar part is still soaking.  Let's see - how can I foul up the next batch? Right now, plain, simple white bread is rising.  We'll see how that turns out.  I may stand in the kitchen, right next to the oven to keep them from over-baking.  Ah - the alternative may be bread that's still a big raw in the center.  I can hardly wait!!

But I did find a great receipe for peanut-butter / raisin cookies for my friend with the cancer.  He LOVES raisins. I called him to let him know I was bringing some cookies.  "Thanks!" he said, "The only dietary restriction I have right now is raisins."  Oh well.  He's getting lots of company.  He can feed the cookies to them.

This weekend, the barstids that DH works for are making him work all wekend long.  Sucks rocks.  Still, it's great to have a job to complain about.  I'm sort of at loose ends - spending 8 hours waiting for him to come home.  I usually plan projects for myself on work days, but I wasn't prepared to be on my own at short notice.  Pull my socks up and do some housework.  Boy - if that's what happens every time he has to work overtime, I'm REALLY gonna hate it when he has to put in extra hours.  Maybe next time I'll spend the time lounging in bed with a pot of hot tea, a cheery romance and a few kitties.  If I can't have my beloved, I'd better do SOMETHING to give myself the will to live.

As I was going through the old photos I found this one of my grandpa.  And what's that he has hidden under his elbow?  A brown paper sack? Could he be drinking some sort of alcoholic beverage out of the bag?  Well, I remember thee story of how, during prohibition, Grandpa was brewing his own beer, and had just bottled a batch when the priest came over for a visit.  Grandpa, Grandma, and Father Schmidt were sitting in the living room, drinking coffee and having a great time when a bottle of beer exploded in the basement.  Father Schmidt was startled, but before he could say anything, another bottle exploded, and the smell of beer came wafting up through the heater vents.  Father sniffed, looked thoughtful, and carried on as if nothing at all were happening.  He spent another hour chatting comfortably until the explosions stopped, then thanked Grandma and Grandpa and took himself off.  A good German boy like Father Schmidt knew the hazards of home-brew.