For Thanksgiving dinner this year, the hostess baked a pan of two dozen homemade rolls. The sight of those lovely golden buns swept me back in time to a long ago Thanksgiving Day in the log home where my mother had grown up.
We arrived in late morning to find Uncle Herbert churning fresh-from-the-cow milk into pale, sweet butter. A roaring blaze in the massive fireplace warmed the kitchen and mingled with the aromas of roasting turkey and baking bread.
Aunt Margaret’s dinner was delicious. Along with the turkey and dressing and mashed potatoes and gravy and corn and green beans and cranberry sauce, the six of us we polished off a dozen rolls dripping with butter. We were stuffed but we made room for the pumpkin pie. Then we pushed back our chairs and groaned. The four adults decided to take a drive and visit the great aunts who lived about half an hour away.
My sixteen-year-old cousin, John, offered to take me for a ride in the sports car he and a friend had rebuilt. I was thirteen and thrilled by such an opportunity. We raced down back roads, crossed the earthen levee beside the lake, and took a tour through town. We came home two hours later laughing and hungry. Our parents had not returned so we found our own snack–rolls and butter. We polished off the remaining dozen rolls.
In my mind’s eye I can see the astonished looks on the faces of our parents when they returned. They could not imagine we had eaten all those rolls. And how I would love to taste again Aunt Margaret’s homemade rolls with home-churned butter.