Making Buns

I learned to make buns recently. I took my kids back to the farm on the prairies. I didn’t grow up there, really. But I like to think I did. My parents purposely left the cold winters to move to the west coast shortly after their marriage. But every summer we would make that trip back to my Gramma and Grampa’s farm. So fun. So exciting. And among so many things I remember about the farm, I remember wanting to be a farm wife. Farm wives are an amazing breed. My Gramma could make breakfast while whipping up a cake for the Women’s Church Lunch while making three bridesmaids dresses and putting up some jam. She would then be making a pie crust for the pie due at the fair tomorrow while she started “dinner”. Now dinner on the farm is actually lunch but looks more like what I know as dinner. And then what we call dinner is actually called “supper”. That’s the evening meal that also looks a lot like what I thought dinner was. “Lunch” on the farm was something we had around 10:00 at night. It was usually tea and coffee. Lots of coffee. And cheese and meats and sweet treats. I have no idea when my Gramma made those. And buns!!

Those buns were the most delicate, delicious pieces of cooked dough I can ever remember. Oh and did I mention my Gramma made those too? Of all the things I remember my Gramma making, watching her mix and pound and twist and bake those buns stands out in my memory. Her hands would flash as she put up six dozen buns in what seemed like minutes. And the smell. Oh that heavenly yeast would fill up the whole house. And then she would bake them. And then. Well, I feel uncomfortably full just thinking about how many I would eat.

So with my Gramma gone now, I arrive at my Aunt’s farmhouse with my two kids in tow and after giving everyone the rightful hugs I announce. “I want to make Gramma’s buns.” No one makes buns anymore. At least no one I know. And I could bring that farm wife warmth and busyness to my kitchen. My children and friends will wonder in awe how I do it all. I can bring back fresh, homemade buns to my kitchen. My aunt looks skeptical but I assure her she can just sit and tell me what to do. So the next day, with the Kitchen Aid stand mixer (my gramma certainly didn’t have one of those) I begin. Yeast, sugar and warm water. Egg, sugar, more warm water. Melted butter and flour. So much flour. The first thing I learn about my Gramma’s buns is they aren’t my Gramma’s buns. All my aunts use this recipe called “Aunt June’s Buns”. I was a bit surprised but I remember my Aunt June and she was a lovely lady with sparkly eyes and a jolly laugh and someone I am quite sure would really know about buns. The second thing I learn about buns is they take a really long time.

As the day wears on and I have pounded down my dough for the second time I realize why no one makes buns anymore. I flew across the country and drove to the farm faster than the time it takes to make buns. And that’s all I have been doing. All day. Well, making buns and drinking coffee. Farm folk sure do like their coffee. Eventually the time comes to shape the dough into buns. And you know, Aunt June had a way to do that too. A little pinch, a twist and into the pan. My aunt makes it look so easy. Another aunt arrives and I discover there are more ways to pinch and twist dough into a bun. And a discussion ensues. Finally it’s time to “set” the buns. And that basically means to just let them sit. Which is what I do along with the buns. It’s been a long day and we still haven’t eaten any actual buns.

As the day wears on and the coffee cups on the counter have been replaced by wine glasses, it’s time to bake the buns. I slide the pans into the warm oven and wait anxiously while I watch the tops of the buns turn from pale to amber. The rich fragrance of the warming dough fills my head with memories and I’m sent back to my childhood and right into my gramma’s kitchen. Her counter, filled with bowls and a cake and that pie to take to the fair. My gramma comes bustling in from the garden with a bowl full of peas under her arm for tonight’s supper. Out of the oven come the buns. The kitchen is full of the heavenly scent of fresh baked buns. A little puff of steam escapes as I gently tear the golden bundle open. The butter I spread, disappears into the soft warm clouds inside. And this little ball of all that is good, melts in my mouth. As I turn to share how happy I am with my Gramma, I see she has already slid a roast into the oven where the buns were only moments ago and she is now working on the peas. Oh the life of a farm wife. My amazing Gramma. And her amazing, delicious fresh baked buns. Oh those buns.