I was walking back from class one morning, lazily plodding my way down Oxford Street, past Starbucks when suddenly a smell overpowered my senses. It was a cinnamony, doughy, fresh-baked-deliciousity type of smell and like Charlie (of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory fame) did while passing Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, I stopped and inhaled deeply. It took over my senses and I literally just stood there, like an idiot, for 2 whole minutes before I looked up and saw the sign “Cinnaholic”. “Gourmet cinnamon rolls” proclaimed a cute little sign. My heart sank.
For those of you with a puzzled look on your face, wondering why such words could cause a fairly normal heart to sink, let me let you in on the story of my life in context of cinnamon rolls. I’ve been a lifelong lacto-vegetarian, meaning that I drink milk and eat cheese, but do not eat eggs. Ever since I was able to smell, I’ve loved the smell of cinnamon, adding it to my homemade oatmeal, pancakes and granola. But whenever my parents took me to the mall, I would pause outside of Cinnabon and literally tear my heart out standing 2 feet outside the doorway, inhaling deeply. As a child, I must have asked the ever-changing waitresses/waiters every time I went to the mall, “Do you have anything eggless?” only to be mercilessly shot down after a 10 minute ingredient scavenger hunt. One woman felt my pain and tried to console me that Cinnabon would soon cater to vegetarians. Maybe her lie is why I didn’t see her the next time I went and checked. It takes a certain amount of heartlessness to turn a child anxious to have a cinnamon roll, down. As an adolescent I gave up, satisfying my craving of “real”, “commercial” cinnamon rolls with my own home made recipe and an occasional whiff at the mall. As a teenager, I gave up the smelling completely, choosing cinnamon raisin bread over rolls and guilt tripping friends who tried to have me taste their “delicious” rolls with animal cruelty rhetoric.
When I inhaled the storefront of Cinnaholic however, my childhood persistent curiosity set in. I went inside and read the menu, took in the black and white decor and waited for someone to surface behind the counter. I observed little sample cups and curiously decorated rolls, smothered in frosting, various toppings (hazelnuts, gingerbread, coconut, cookie crumbs, pomegranate seeds) on little plates. My mouth watered a little. When a person came out, my eyes got all puppy-like and hopeful as I timidly asked “Do you have anything eggless on your menu?” Understanding that I was in Berkeley and was likely to be offered coffee and not a flatout shot down, I prepared my soul. “CINNAMON BREAD IS AS GOOD AS CINNAMON ROLLS!”
“Oh yeah, everything is vegan.” the lady said, smiling.
“Uh, vegan?” I asked, my face contorted with flabbergastion.
“Vegan.” she replied, finality in her voice.
“SHUT UP.” I exclaimed, really loudly.
Good thing it was only 11 in the morning and no one was in the store. I actually did a happy dance. “This is probably the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
The lady looked thoroughly confused.
I ordered a cinnamon roll with butterscotch frosting that morning. I came back with a friend that afternoon. And then the next day.
I’ve nearly stamped off my entire card and it has been less than 2 weeks.
I’ve had sugar highs, sugar lows and gone where the wind blows.
This is my new obsession.
I am a cinnaholic.
Bosmopolitan 