What I Ate Last Weekend: The Grossest Cinnamon Roll of my Life

First, let’s be clear about the words I just used. I did not say the worst cinnamon roll of my life. I said the grossest. Meaning, it’s not that the flavor and/or the texture were actually the very worst — it’s that something else was at play. Something gross. And that something was: hair.

There was not one piece of hair on my cinnamon roll. There were four. Two blonde human hairs and two white cat hairs. Oliver’s cinnamon roll had also been compromised. Oliver’s roll had one long blonde human hair. Definitely a smaller number of hairs than mine, but the human hair on his roll was so long that it curled around itself into an infinity symbol. As I pulled the hair off of his, wanting to puke but trying to keep a very nonchalant look on my face — I watched while some of the frosting came off with it, then set it on a a napkin on our table. The fact that the frosting came off with it made the whole thing seem grosser but the frosting actually served as a binding agent, ensuring that the hair affixed itself to the napkin, as opposed to floating through air above our table, seeking more food to land on, so I suppose ultimately, it was a good thing.

Though I wanted to tell Oliver to throw his cinnamon roll away and to throw mine away and to run out of the establishment screaming, I didn’t do any of that. I was suprisingly calm. In general, I freak out easily and often, but I am excellent in an emergency. It’s almost as if I recognize the situation I’m in during an emergency matches the one my nervous system thinks I’m in all of the time and I kick back, relax and settle into the feeling of something like harmony. I didn’t say peaceful. An emergency is never peaceful. But sometimes it feels very balancing to have the outer and the inner finally line up. When I saw the hairs all over our rolls, I picked each and every one off quickly and efficiently, looked at Ollie with a super chill expression, and said, “Oh; who cares? They could have even been our hairs.” (They were not ours.) It worked. He watched me remove the hair, grabbed his knife and fork, and dug in — into what turned out to be a seriously lackluster cinnamon roll. I mean — in no way was the quality of that pastry worth eating the protein and DNA from the hair topper. Ollie rated it a WHOPPING 6 (kids are nuts) and I rated it a 1.5 (I initially rated it a 0 for the presence of hair but Nic said I had to factor that out and vote solely on cinnamon roll quality so I gave it a generous 1.5)

Had the waitress been in the back, or the cook been a long hallway down from us, or the owner not been in that day, I would have thrown those cinnamon rolls away. I wouldn’t have complained, but I would have chucked them silently and eaten something else when I got home. But I didn’t want any of the people whose heart had gone into creating that restaurant, making that food or serving it to feel like it had let me down. I didn't freak out because I wanted to take care of them, and because I wanted Oliver to never display anything less than graciousness when being offered something, either. Even if it is different than what we were hoping for.

**

The last good cinnamon roll I had was right after my mom died. Which is weird because one of the last things she had while alive was a cinnamon roll from the hospital cafe.

Want to know something insane? I’m never sure how long it's been since my mom died. I mean, you’d think (I’d think) the number would be burned into my awareness — but it’s not. Similarly, I have no idea what time Oliver was born. (I do know the date — but would I, if he weren’t always reminding me it was ‘almost his birthday’?) It’s almost like — the bigger the moment, the less likely I am to remember the specifics surrounding it. It happened; I was changed. This thing happened and I was changed forever and I can never go back so who cares exactly when it happened. But we love dates. We revere all kinds of anniversaries — almost as if we believe that by noting the exact time and date something big occurred, we can make it either a) keep occurring exactly as it had in that initial moment or b) make it never have happened at all. These two things appear quite different — opposites, even — but — as with many things — we can find a lot of similarities running through seemingly opposite objects.

Anyway, the other day I was searching my brain for the date of her death and I thought oh I’ll just do some emotional math (how old was Ollie? how many years have I been missing her?) — but the emotional math was so fatiguing, I finally gave up and googled her obituary.

I googled my own mother’s obituary to find out for certain the date of her death.

After I checked the date, I kept the obituary up on my phone, because she looks really beautiful in the photo and it made me happy to see her there. It was like gettting to say hi to her each time I would go to pull up one of the other 500 tabs that I have open. (If I ever come into a lot of money, it will take me mere seconds to buy seven pairs of boots I have lined up like ladies in waiting.)

Then, yesterday, I googled the name of someone I do not know at all to see their obituary, because I had gone too deep into someone’s instagram page and needed to understand what had happened to their loved one.

Which means that this morning, I had two obituaries up on my phone. What does it mean to have two obituaries up on one’s phone? How many obituaries do you have up on yours now? What does it mean to stare at people who were here who aren’t anymore? Pointless? Or like love?

**

We got a kitten a couple years ago and I am telling you that every single day that I see her in the house, I get excited. She’s so cute. She’s so interesting. She’s so cool.

This afternoon, I found her sleeping in Ollie’s bed and I leaned over her, hoping to hear her little purr. I pet her and told her she was lovely and kissed her 25 times in 25 seconds. When I walked away, I heard myself say aloud, “Thank you.”

And yes I did think it was funny and weird that I said thank you to her as I walked away, but I know I said it — that it fell out of me — because I meant it. I felt so grateful that she let me lean over her, place my hand on her, and kiss her a ridiculous amount of times on her ridiculously tiny crown.

I said thank you because I was honestly thankful. She let me lay my love down at her feet. Without guarding myself. Without making sure I gave only 20 kisses when I wanted to give 25. She allowed me to behave in the way that I actually feel towards her — giant, grossish, all-encompassing love. Any living thing that has allowed me to behave the way that I actually feel towards it is the most gracious thing that has ever occurred in my life.

Now, though I tell her I love easily during the day, it seems important to confess that at night I often tell her — again, outloud — that I hate her. She’s not as affectionate at night and she prefers Nic to me and it all hurts me so much. I am ashamed to reveal that I am so childish that when she rebukes me at night, I sometimes say I hate you aloud.

Does this mean I only love those who let me do what I want? Who let me love the way I want? Because that sounds like a shitty selfish version of love. One I would not be proud to lay down at anyone else’s feet.

**

Food is complicated. It’s like our overall rating is 25% based off appearance, 25% taste, 25% texture and 25% some memory or feeling that the food evokes. It’s sustenance, and sometimes we want to believe we can whittle it down to that, but it’s almost unbearably deep. It’s so incredibly nuanced. And I wonder — is love this absurdly nuanced too? Injury — affection — injury — affection — repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.