A Twist

Posted April 21, 2010 by jimhigley

I still make breakfast for my youngest son. We don’t talk much but I keep telling myself that this is like my frequent flyer points. I’m banking that each day of my short order cook stint will somehow, someway, result in a huge payback.

In the meantime, however, I settle for the “thank you” I’m sure I hear him mumbling as his eyes are fixated on ESPN Sports Center.

About six weeks ago, I made the mistake of making some Pillsbury Cinnamon Twists one morning. The ones with icing. And, now, the ones that are “Made with Cinnabon Cinnamon.” Think about that. I don’t get it.

Anyway, he loved them. He even had a little pep in his step as he ran out to the bus. So what if it was the sugar? I felt pretty proud of myself. Then I proceeded to eat the five remaining twists. And, this story repeated itself for the balance of the week.

So, to keep myself from turning into the Pillsbury Dough Boy, I came up with what I thought was a pretty terrific solution. I’d open the tube of cinnamony love. I’d only take out enough dough for three twists. I’d bake the three twists in my little toaster oven. I’d frost them. Serve them. And, I’d put the remaining
ingredients in a zip-lock bag so I could do the same thing the following morning. I’ve been doing that now for over a month.

It’s been a month of breakfast bliss.

I’ve also noticed an unexplainable change in the morning relationship between my son and our two dogs. He used to not really care too much about them. Now, he insists that they be inside with him while he eats. He swears he’s not feeding them. But, he gets ridiculously upset with me if I leave them outside too long.

“Let the dogs in, dad!” he’ll scream. “They’re cold.”

“It’s 65 degrees out. They’re fine.”

But he remains relentless about having the dogs by his side. I think it’s weird but, whatever. Maybe the cinnamon is triggering some nurturing hormone inside his growing body.

Today, the “dog” story played out again. Only, this time, I was upstairs when he started screaming for me to let the dogs in.

“I’m upstairs,” I hollered back. “Give me a few minutes.”

“Hurry! It’s an emergency!”

When I came down, I stopped and asked him what the big fuss is always about with the dogs.

“They lick all the frosting off my hands before I get up. Now I’m gonna miss my bus thanks to you.”

I’m not sure if there will be cinnamon twists tomorrow. If there is, he’s getting a side of Purell