Is there an award for this?

I feel like I’ve passed some kind of threshold. There should be prizes, or possibly medication.

Today, we made sourdough cinnamon rolls. 100% organic, 100% from scratch. Although, to be fair, we didn’t grind the flour ourselves. Or the cinnamon. Oh, the corners we cut around here!

I’m not saying they’re pretty, and they’re not the scary ooey gooey worth every chemical-laden mouthful rolls of Cinnabon lore, but dude, they’re homemade cinnamon rolls. Does it get much crazier than that?

I thought about trying to turn this post in to something more profound, possibly (finally!) working in my response to this post over at Shapely Prose, talk about the implications of our food choices, the simultaneous joy and drudgery of cooking from scratch, gender roles in the kitchen (these were a decidedly cooperative endeavor; The Man, sourdough being his current obsession, made the dough, I formed dough into rolls, the Boychick turned the rolls into mess), y’know, something with meaning.

But, nah, I’m in too much of a sugar daze to work that hard. So you can just marvel at my baking and my (in)sanity. Or click away to something more interesting. I won’t mind. I have my rolls…