In our home, it’s not Christmas without sticky buns. This year I briefly toyed with the idea of not making them– maybe I was a bit more tired, maybe I was feeling less than festive- but still I made them, and as they always do, they worked their magic.

Sticky Buns

I did not want to cook
or bake or clean away
the dirtied dishes
yet again.

Still, with a sigh
I measured, heated, cooled, combined,
set aside the bowl for the first rise.

Later, I rolled out the dough–
grown with the mysterious gift of yeast
to double its size–
then spread the melted butter
sprinkled clouds of cinnamon sugar.

Slowly my shoulders relaxed,
my jaw softened as I eased
into each step
following the journey of the recipe
forward and also backward
to my mother
to my grandmother.

How many times did they stand just so-
alone in a kitchen
maybe tired and distracted
creating the sticky buns 
that sweetened each  
holiday morning of my childhood?

Did they ever imagine that my thoughts
of them would be forever
cinnamon-brown-sugar-sweet
tightly-rolled and baked to golden perfection
the centerpiece of every Christmas morning
past, present
and future?

©Molly Hogan, draft

The holidays are steeped in memories. As I wrote in my post on Tuesday, they are wrapped in past and present. In my world, sticky buns are a perfect example of this.

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Michelle Kogan. She’s sharing a wonderful assortment of elfchens. Be forewarned: I suspect that writing them might be as addictive as eating sticky buns! Just one more…

May the past infuse your present with sweetness and a sense of connection as we enter the new year.