Right in between cookies and basic bread is the entire universe of sweet dough. It is inevitable I would land in the middle of my two bakery extremes someday.  Well, it finally happened this month. The month of April 2020.  I’ve been flirting around with cinnamon raisin bread, sweet white bread, and cinnamon rolls. Why has it taken me so long? I don’t know, have no idea, not a clue. 

Maybe it was fear. I feared I would not replicate the deliciousness of the coffee cakes I remember from the old neighborhood. These were made by the German, Hungarian, and Polish immigrants. Italian pastries are a whole other subject. (which I’ll save when I want to bring out some of my fond gangster memories).  These sweet rolls were always the right thing to take along to any get-together. Back in our little neighborhood, mornings meant “Coffee klatsches” which comes from German Kaffeeklatsch, meaning “coffee chat.”  Chatting was serious back then. It was the best way to get all the news and gossip. It was just like small villages back in Europe. For about six years after Ken and I married, we lived in a three flat building. It was in a primarily Polish, German, and Italian neighborhood off Lawrence Ave, between Central and Austin. This was just southwest of Jefferson Park in Chicago. There was a lot of Dis, Dat, and Dose kinda Klatschings going on daily. All the great little bakeries were kept very, very busy.

The other day after my first attempts at creating sweet rolls, the bakery space was a wreck. I had made bread, cookies, and cinnamon rolls.  I hadn’t a clue about how long the cinnamon roll making process actually took. Pans were everywhere, sinks were full. So Ken, in all seriousness, says, “I have to teach you a thing or two.” He meant about cleaning up a bakery.  No lie, he really said that. So I asked him what made him such an expert? He said he has years of experience. What? Really? And you are telling me this now, after decades of marriage? 

Well, apparently, as a kid, he did work and clean up at a neighborhood bakery called the Golden Doughnut. It was two doors down from the Pharmacy. Above the Pharmacy, we had our first apartment, which I LOVED. It was next door to the Polish deli and just down the street from his family’s funeral home. For years, Ken the undertaker’s son, and the bakers son would help each other out with the family chores. Ken cleaned the bakery. The baker’s kid helped clean the fleet of hearses, flower cars, and limousines at the funeral home.

That section of Lawrence avenue was a wonderful mix of ethic small businesses. It is still my favorite model of a great place to live. Thompson’s bakery on Irving park road in Chicago was the other and much larger bakery we frequented. It was further away but worth the trip. Just walking into that thick, damp, yeasty, warm, sweet air was truly blissful. I intended to try different flavors at each visit. I usually bought Cherry, cheese, and apple after looking over everything in the shop. I love the sweet yeasty smells. They bring back all those memories. It’s a beautiful thing, messes or not.

Pics of my progress so far, without the cleanup disaster, or the ugly bun disaster either.