When I was a kid, I loved going to my Grandma’s house. I had the best Grandma ever. She was everything a Grandma should be, soft and warm and perfect for cuddling, she was constantly cooking/baking, and her house was constantly permeated with the smell of yeast and rising dough.
She would always have some sort of treat for us, whether it was curly buns, tarts of all kinds, if the Cheese Wolf had come, or even cinnamon buns. Cinnamon buns were my favourite, and Grandma’s were the best.
After I got married and moved into my own home I started baking. Grandma’s cinnamon buns were always a scary thought to try to reproduce, but try I did. And failed. Miserably. I swore I’d never make them again! Then I did. And failed again. It took me four tries to get the hang of it and get them perfect. It wasn’t easy, and I don’t take failure well.
Grandma’s cinnamon buns are like her, soft and sweet, and a bit crusty around the edges. They’re sticky and buttery, and full of perfumey cinnamon. A perfect combination of deliciousness.