Irene's Orange Rolls

I never had the opportunity to meet my Grandmother Irene. She died before I was born, fighting a cancer that eventually took her life. She was a strong woman, raising my mother and her two sons on a farm in small town America. There are a few anecdotes my mother likes to share with my sister and me, both humorous and sad, so we can hope to know her too, if only in a small way.

Though I never had the chance to meet my grandmother, I feel as if I have gotten to know her most through her cooking. Over the years, my mother has shared her recipes with me, whether it was a meal she served on our dining room table, stories about the food she created, or a recipe card handwritten by her mother. Each recipe, big and small, allows me a small window to see into the person she was.

Her everyday food was simple, but no less delicious because of it. For breakfast, she would serve pancakes with a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar, using a swirl of cream instead of maple syrup to bring in a little decadence. During the long days of summer, she'd serve up peaches and cream, taking advantage of seasonal fruits.

It was the holidays, however, where she showed the true love for her family to the extent she was willing to go with her food. During Christmas, she'd be up to her elbows in holiday treats. My grandfather fell head over heels for her signature honey cookies. For as long as she lived, she made sure he never went a winter without them. On Easter Sunday, she served up these bright orange rolls for a sweet breakfast. My mother tells me they grew to be quite famous around town. After tasting them for myself, it doesn't take much imagination to understand why.

My grandmother's photograph is proudly displayed in the kitchen; a felicitous reminder of where my relationship with the grandmother I never knew began. The picture is slightly faded, in sepia tones, but she's sitting tall, with a humble smile dancing across her lips. My mother looks just like her, from her eyes and her cheeks to her nose; sometimes I wonder if I do too, in a more subtle way.

I never imagined food would become the connection between myself and my heritage. I've learned the past and present can be connected by food and a simple recipe can reveal the heart and soul of its creator. As food was an expression of love for my grandmother, so it has become for me.

Irene's Orange Rolls have a bright, sweet citrus flavor. The dough is reminiscent of a brioche, made with sour cream and butter, and is an absolute dream to work with. The dough is rolled out and filled with a sweet mixture of orange zest and coconut before being rolled back up like little croissants. After coming out of the oven, golden and warm, an orange glaze is poured over top, which soaks deep into the rolls. These little gems keep for several days at room temperature and make for a wonderful breakfast for holidays and weekdays alike.

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Hot Cross Buns

A few years ago I was visiting Prague with a friend. The Czech Republic was the second to the last leg of our month-long backpacking trip through Europe and, by the time we arrived, we were harried and overwrought. Early mornings and late nights for weeks on end had left us exhausted to tears, but there was a whole world to see so we couldn't justify waking up later than eight in the morning.

We saw castles and churches. We walked the city in every direction with a tour guide who would certainly win the gold medal in speed walking. Yet, I remember very little of what we learned and, without the photographs as proof where I'd been, I'm not sure I'd remember even that.

There is, however, one thing about Prague I will not ever forget.

It happened while my friend and I were walking back to the hostel the next night, after a wasted day of blissfully napping in public parks and eating sausage. Rounding a corner on a small, cobblestone street, I came across a sight I will certainly never see again. We passed a man.

Then, two. Then, three.

Looking ahead, we both stopped dead in our tracks, dumbfounded. It was as if every eligible bachelor within a few years of my age was walking down this particular street at precisely the same time. There were at least one hundred men. A quiet congregation, there was no clear message as to who they were or where they were going.

I stood, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, in the center of the street. One hundred men were there, it seemed, just for me.

It took quite some time after the last of the men had rounded the corner before my friend and I could regain control over ourselves. We looked at each other in disbelief. I wondered aloud if that had really just happened, wanting to pinch myself as if I were in a dream. I wanted to follow them back around the corner to verify they were real and not a fantastic hallucination. Though we hadn't been searching, we had unwittingly found all of the men.

To this day, their presence and purpose remains a mystery. A truly unusual life moment, I can't help but want to dig deeper, to find meaning (though there certainly will never be one). It was Prague's beautiful gift to me, as if it knew that I needed a reason to remember the city outside of my photographs.

Though these hot cross buns may not be as unforgettable as a parade of men, they surprised me. I knew of hot cross buns for as long as I can remember—from nursery rhymes and grocery store shelves—but I never foresaw they would taste this good. As a baker, I love to get caught off guard by something unexpected and these did just the trick.

These Hot Cross Buns are soft and sweet. I used the base from my honey rolls, opting for milk instead of water to create a more tender bread. Sweetened with honey, a hint of orange, and a handful of raisins, these buns are surprisingly remarkable. Though sacrilege in some circles, I used a cream cheese icing to make the traditional crosses simply because I think the tartness of the cheese complements the sweetness of the bread better. Make these rolls for those you love—it's far too easy to eat more than your fair share in one sitting.

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Swedish Visiting Cake

If the variety of self-improvement books on the topic are any indication, there are thousands of ways to live your life. There are different strategies out there to help you fulfill the life just right for you. Some people live their lives in pursuit of money, others in the pursuit of helping others. Some choose to live their lives in devotion to a god, others in devotion to success. With so many options and opinions on the subject, I've always wondered where on the spectrum I would fall. Would I ultimately choose the way of the American dream, of success and money? Would I subscribe to a humble lifestyle, full of family and friends? Would I do something big, or would I settle for a familiar lifestyle?

Out of college, with my life laid out before me, I find it hard to even guess where I will find myself in the future. Even so, I can't help but wonder which lifestyle was meant for me. Of all the self-improvement books I could choose off the library shelf, which one would resonate with me?

While this thought has been swimming around my mind the last few years, in various levels of consciousness, I never imagined a simple phrase overheard at a nearby restaurant table would be the answer to my question. He said, waving his fork in the air as if to punctuate the point, he wanted to live an anecdotal life.

I realized, in that moment, that it was exactly what I wanted too. An anecdotal life.

I don't care about having a highly successful career. I'm not hell-bent on amassing a great fortune. While I'd love to help others with my life, I'm not sure I'm ready to devote my future to that just yet. However, I do like to hear a good story and I can't imagine a better life than one filled with true, tall tales to tell.

Upon reflection, I've realized that I have been happiest when I have been living the anecdotal life. When I'm filled with adventure and curiosity, where everything is possible and anything can (and does) happen, where each day may be a little more uncertain than the last. While I realize I can't always be traveling the world or making big decisions, finding myself in new situations or exploring unknown facets of my personality, I want to keep my mind open to the possibilities. I don't want to shut them out if they come calling, whatever form they may arrive in.

These last couple years have been filled with quiet stories for me, with months of my life making up the space between paragraphs. I miss finding myself face to face with a mountain goat in the rocky mountains. I miss the adventures and conversations with friends that now live far away. I miss being the girl who sits outside with her camera just to capture the sunset. It's easy for life to feel like a lull in conversation, for the winter blues to wash away the heat and life of summer. It's harder to put yourself into a place where new, unexpected stories can be born.

After all, if I don't keep composing new stories to tell, what else will we talk about next time we sit down over a cup of coffee and a piece of cake?

This Swedish Visiting Cake is chewy and sweet, with complex flavors. Without any leavening agents, the cake sets rather than bakes up, resulting in a cake with a texture similar to a coffee cake rather than a typical birthday cake. Originally a recipe from Dorie Greenspan, I played with a few of the ingredients, resulting in a cake I can't help but love. Browned butter, orange zest, and almonds combine to make a trio of flavor that only grows more depth as time passes.

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