The Best Soft and Fluffy Honey Dinner Rolls

Third round of AC chemo on Tuesday the 27th. The day after Christmas. I spent Christmas recovering from the joy of the day before — a full meal, the drive to Twin Falls and back, the effort of being a normal mom for one day — and then walked into the infusion center and sat down in the recliner and let the red devil drip into my veins for the third time. Maria the nurse put on the IV and said, "How was your Christmas?" and I said, "Perfect," and she smiled and said, "Good. Hold onto that," and I am. I am holding onto Christmas like a rope thrown to a drowning woman.

The side effects are cumulative. Each round is worse than the last. The nausea hit faster this time — within eight hours instead of twenty-four — and lasted longer. The fatigue went deeper. I slept sixteen hours on Thursday and woke up feeling like I hadn't slept at all. My bones ache. My mouth has sores. My skin is dry and papery and every surface on my body feels like it's been turned inside out. This is what the poison does. It kills the cancer and it kills the parts of you that make you feel like a person, and you let it because the alternative is worse.

New Year's Eve was quiet. Scott and I stayed home. The kids were in bed by 8. I sat on the couch with a blanket and a cup of ginger tea — the only thing my stomach reliably accepts — and watched the ball drop on TV. Scott sat in the armchair with a beer. We didn't toast. We didn't kiss. At midnight I thought: I made it. I made it to 2017. The year I was diagnosed is over. The new year starts now, and in this new year I will finish chemo and grow my hair back and taste food again and be alive. I will be alive.

Mason stayed up until 10, which he considered a monumental achievement. He made a list of New Year's resolutions: 1. Read more books. 2. Be nice to Lily. 3. Learn to ride a bike. He is five and already more goal-oriented than most adults I know. Lily did not make resolutions because she is three and her only goal in life is to obtain a horse, which she pursues with the single-mindedness of a tiny, relentless CEO.

I didn't cook this week. Carol brought soup on Monday. Brett brought pizza on Wednesday. Mom sent frozen cinnamon rolls that I reheated on Saturday morning and ate one, just one, slowly, tasting it through the metallic filter of chemo, and it was muted and wrong but still recognizable — still cinnamon, still sugar, still butter, still Mom. I ate it and cried and then I stopped crying and washed the plate and moved on, because that is what you do. You eat the cinnamon roll. You cry. You wash the plate. You keep going.

I didn’t cook this week, but I kept thinking about bread — the kind that fills a house with warmth and smells like something whole and unhurried, the opposite of everything chemo makes you feel. When I finally had a day that felt steady enough, I made these honey dinner rolls, not because I needed them but because I needed to make them, to stand at the counter and do something with my hands that had a beginning and a middle and a soft, golden end. Here’s how I did it.

Prep Time: 20 min + 1 hr 30 min rising | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: ~2 hrs | Servings: 12 rolls

Ingredients

1 cup whole milk, warmed to 110°F
2 1/4 tsp active dry yeast (1 standard packet)
3 tbsp honey, divided
3 cups all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting
1 tsp fine salt
1 large egg, room temperature
3 tbsp unsalted butter, softened
For the glaze: 2 tbsp unsalted butter, melted + 1 tbsp honey

Instructions

Activate the yeast. Whisk warm milk, yeast, and 1 tbsp of the honey together in a large bowl. Let sit 5–10 minutes until the surface turns foamy. If it doesn’t foam, your yeast may be expired — start again with a fresh packet.
Build the dough. Add the remaining 2 tbsp honey, the egg, softened butter, and salt to the yeast mixture. Stir to combine. Add the flour one cup at a time, stirring until a shaggy dough forms, then use your hands to bring it together into a rough ball.
Knead. Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead for 8–10 minutes until the dough is smooth, elastic, and springs back when poked. It should be soft but not sticky.
First rise. Place the dough in a lightly greased bowl, turn once to coat, and cover with a clean kitchen towel or plastic wrap. Let rise in a warm spot for 1 hour, or until doubled in size.
Shape the rolls. Punch the dough down and turn it onto a clean surface. Divide evenly into 12 pieces. Roll each piece into a smooth ball by cupping your hand and rolling against the counter with a little pressure. Arrange in a greased 9x13-inch baking dish, evenly spaced.
Second rise. Cover the dish loosely and let rise another 30–45 minutes until the rolls are puffy and touching one another.
Bake. Preheat the oven to 375°F. Bake the rolls for 18–22 minutes, until the tops are golden and the internal temperature reads 190°F.
Glaze and serve. Stir together the melted butter and honey. Brush generously over the rolls the moment they come out of the oven. Serve warm.

Nutrition (per roll)

The Best Soft and Fluffy Honey Dinner Rolls — Still Cinnamon, Still Sugar, Still Mom