Some years ago I read a study where a group of fluid physicists determined the number of steps it would take before you sloshed coffee out of a cup…. that number – depends on length of your leg / width of your gait … the rhythm, if you will, of a standard walk. And for most people – that number is somewhere between 7 and 10.
Mine is 15…. how do I know? Well, I counted… years before that study was ever published. And, I didn’t even need a special grant or a college sanctioned study to come to that.
I’ve counted crap all my life. The number of trees lining the driveway; the number of steps in a particular marching band routine; the number (and ratio) of off-colored tiles in a backsplash – and subsequently, the number of broken tiles in a box; the number of stories in a building. Over and over, from every angle and direction. Suffice to say, I loved physical china, glass, silverware inventory time in the hotel – stacks upon stacks of neat plate towers and trays of pristine forks all waiting to be assigned a number.
I could blame my parents for getting us started on those infernal backseat car games like counting cows… but that wouldn’t be completely true. It’s genetic.
My dad was a counter. You’d catch him out of the corner of your eye counting the ceiling tiles in the sanctuary during Sunday service. He loved telling you how many nails or screws it took to secure something, or how many miles exactly including tenths it was to some random destination. I loved him to death, but to be totally honest, counting is only interesting when you’re the one doing it.
I decided early on to never ever tell people that I have a counting issue… it just comes off as crazy talk. Although – shortly after the Brazilian moved in, we had to attend some tedious lecture. Bored, I found myself counting ceiling tiles and rows of chairs. When, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the familiar tale-tail head cadence. I leaned over and said, “It’s 8, 766.”
So, I know when I tell you I made a particular recipe 6, 8, 32 times – you really don’t care.
But then again…. I’m not doing it for you.
… each time, declaring THESE are the best ever.
And sadly, they’re not. Either the dough is too dry and tastes like a big, bad biscuit
or the filling ratio is all wrong, or you can’t taste the cinnamon, or the glaze is too gloppy – sweet – thick – runny – whatever. They just don’t fulfill and satisfy the mental image I’ve created of what they should be like.
So, while I may never recreate the perfect complete cinnamon bun, I have managed to perfect the filling. Fill free to slather it on anything you like.