Wednesday, February 23, 2011

I Want to Beat People Up for Overcooking Cinnamon Rolls: An Informal Essay

How does it even enter into somebody's mind to allow a batch of cinnamon rolls to become overcooked? At what point did it become OK to be distracted by some other menial task whilst said buns rise? Once embarked upon the journey to heavenly perfection that is everything a perfectly prepared pan of cinnamon buns represents, cannot be so easily or thoughtlessly abandoned. Just take a moment and consider what it is that hangs in the balance. Life, my friends. Life hangs in the balance. Perhaps not a real life, in the sense that you or I or even a small woodland creature experiences it, but a way of life. The American way. You see, in my America, responsibilities implicitly assumed by the bold undertaking of heroic tasks are seen through, because if you fail in your endeavors it is not only you alone that must pay the price. No, it is all who must share in bearing the cost.

So when you set your oven timer for the actual time suggested on the side of the can, an offense most egregious in and of itself, but then allowing for even that lofty limit to pass by without action, without remark... without lament... You let down yourself, surely, but keep in mind... you also let down America. By allowing those soft, moist, delicious pastries once bursting forth with flavor and potential to whither and shrink you place the knife at our heart. By allowing the succulent aroma of cinnamon to be overcome by that of the crumbled ashes of the no-longer-a-cinnamon-roll thing that remains in the pan, you thrust the dagger in. By serving up this abomination as if you've never strayed from the path of the righteous, you confirm that your betrayal is complete. As our eyelids flutter, and grow heavy and our vision fades... darkness encroaching upon life and reason... the quizzical expression upon your face reveals the truth hidden deeper still:

You're an idiot

This new madness of fire and cinnamon is something entirely foreign to me. Before I can account for it, I am already lost to it. While it invigors my once lifeless husk, renewed energies come at a steep cost. This new concept, this mind poison now festers deep within the catacombs of my very soul; try as I might to expunge its foul presence, I am at every turn rebuked, only to then find my entire world now colored by the darkness that I carry with me. Upon any object which my gaze might fall I see only ruination. Upon any promising idea that my troubled imagination may linger for even a moment, I now see only the smoldering cinders of what could have been. It is in this moment that I know I am not long for this world. In such as a place as this where such atrocities are possible... cinnamon buns cruelly cut down in their prime, due only to the disinterest of the bourgeoisie, I cannot remain.

Yet, I also cannot depart. Not with the knowledge that there might come those who know nothing of what I have seen... Yes... I must do my part to ensure that this disaster is never revisited upon the unsuspecting innocent. So stand with me, friends, and together put at an end this horror, this travesty... in the name of future generations... please...
slightly undercook your god-damned cinnamon rolls.

For America

Thank you.