Buns and Buds
Excremental putrefaction! Does that count as foul language? I wish to express my dismay upon discovering that something bit off almost all the flower heads from my Bachelor’s Buttons that were just about to bloom. Husband says maybe a roe deer. He is a real dear, out in the garden rigging up a protection for the two buds that are left. The value of these flowers is sentimental — my mother sent me the seeds –I remember my grandmother growing them. Plus they are a beautiful shade of blue.
I found some consolation in the cinnamon buns I made. If you want cinnamon buns here you have to make them yourself, they are not in the French baker’s repertoire. When I was a student I saw something in a bakery window that looked like a cinnamon bun, and after splurging in spite of my tight budget, found out not only was there no cinnamon, there was some weird kind of yellow cream in it. Today’s buns turned out just like I wanted them, with those pull-apart flake-like sheets of dough that are my favorite part — I don’t know if they have a name, but they ought to. We accompanied them with a vin blanc moelleux. One would say sweet white wine in English, but that just does not convey all that the word moelleux does. Think of a down comforter that you could flop into, that’s moelleux.