It is Christmas, and to some that means the baby Jesus, and/or the light returning, and/or the smell of spruce, and/or red and green tartan skirts. To me it means all that and cinnamon buns.
Last year at this time I committed myself to opting out of the self-fulfilling prophecy of doom I had attached to the making of these buns, and by extension, to the self-fulfilling prophecy of doom that has often ruled my life, despite considerable evidence to the contrary.
This year the buns rose slower than normal, and they baked slower than normal, but when they came out they were fine.
And I am happy to say I found my digital camera in time to take a picture of the results.
Praise God, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.