Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,53
was my go-to treat. Some days, I liked it even more than dark chocolate!
I bet Jonathan will love these.
Wait. I was just upset because I felt bad about hurting his feelings; I could not start obsessing over him. That was what it was—just an obsession, an unhealthy obsession. Jonathan was a bit like these cinnamon rolls. Sure, maybe one was okay, but if I wasn’t careful, the next thing I knew, I would have eaten the whole pan and would have to spend the rest of the day sleeping off a sugar headache.
The caramel was done; I added a dash of sea salt to bring out the flavor then set it aside to cool. Then I cooked the apples a bit on the stove, enough to soften them but not to stew them. While they cooked, I rolled out the dough into a large rectangle that covered a good portion of my table.
Once they saw I was finally assembling the cinnamon rolls, the camera guys hustled over, directing me to rearrange my station so they could get the best shot.
Lilith hovered next to them. “Sharing is caring,” she told me. “You know, sisterly love and all that.”
“Not until after I get my B-roll,” Zane said from behind his camera.
“Just put Lilith’s and mine in a separate special dish,” Emma wheedled. “You know how I feel about cinnamon rolls!”
“These are for Jonathan,” I reminded her as I spread a thick layer of European butter on the dough.
“Oh, for Jonathan!” Emma giggled.
“You can’t be obsessing over him if it’s going to start to impact me,” Lilith said. “Remember that song at the beginning of White Christmas: ‘Lord help the mister who comes between me and my sister…’”
Emma snorted. “And I believe it ends with, ‘And Lord help the sister that comes between me and my man!’”
“Jonathan is not my man,” I said through gritted teeth as I sprinkled spoonfuls of cinnamon, nutmeg, and a little sea salt on the buttered dough.
“You’re making him apple cinnamon rolls,” Lilith insisted. She tried to swipe a spoonful of the caramel sauce, but I rapped her hand with a spoon.
“I need that,” I said, drizzling it on the dough.
“You’re surely not going to use all of it.”
I sighed and handed my twin the container after I had used what I needed. “Don’t come complaining to me when all your teeth fall out.”
“And now the apples,” Emma whispered as I spooned heaps of the apples onto the dough.
“You totally have the hots for him,” Lilith said around a spoonful of caramel. “I pleaded on my deathbed for you to make these for me when I was sick, and you turned up your nose. Now Jonathan—who, I may add, you have known for all of what, two weeks?—warrants his very own pan of cinnamon rolls.”
“Yesss,” Emma said, “roll it up into a big, thick roll! Oh yes! This is so much better than any porno.”
“We all live such sad little lives,” Lilith said, stuffing a spoonful of caramel into Emma’s mouth.
After the dough was rolled up, I cut it into two-inch slices then carefully arranged them into several pans.
“All the extras are mine,” Lilith insisted when I slid the pans into the oven.
“Nooo,” Emma begged, “I need my own pan.”
“I can’t believe I made so many,” I complained as I set the timer.
“It’s sacrilegious to make less than enough cinnamon rolls to feed everyone on the block,” Lilith reminded me. “You’re channeling Mimi’s spirit.”
“You need to channel some caffeine,” Emma said. “You’re the last one left.”
“You can’t rush perfection.”
“Jonathan’s going to be too full from all the other desserts to eat yours,” Emma cried.
“Too bad,” Lilith said happily. “Guess I’ll have to eat all these myself.”
I chewed on my lip and started making the cream cheese frosting. I was the last contestant. Would Jonathan even bother? Maybe I should have made something less labor intensive, but apple cinnamon rolls seemed like exactly the type of breakfast goodies he would enjoy. Of course, if I were actually cooking him breakfast, I would make him a full English breakfast with sausage, fried eggs, and heirloom tomatoes. The cinnamon rolls would only be a part of the spread.
“Uh-oh,” Lilith said. The tone of her voice let me know some sort of wild accusation was incoming.
I turned on the electric mixer. “Can’t hear you!” I yelled as it whirred. I hoped my twin would forget all about what she was going to say.