Creamy Cinnamon Syrup

Emma came to Grinnell. Kevin drove her on Saturday morning and she sat at Marlene's kitchen table with her colored pencils and her sketchbook and she drew her grandmother. The drawing took three hours. Emma is twelve and she drew with the patience of someone three times her age, studying Marlene's face the way you study a landscape — the angles, the light, the shadows, the topography of a face that has been shaped by seventy years of Iowa wind and sun and laughter and grief.

Marlene sat. She was a willing subject — more than willing, pleased, the kind of pleased that a grandmother is when a grandchild pays this particular attention, the attention that says: I am looking at you. I am really looking at you. You are worth three hours of my Saturday. The sitting was easy for her now — sitting is what the body allows, and Marlene has always been good at making the best of what the body allows.

The portrait is extraordinary. Emma captured something — not just the face but the something behind the face, the something that is Marlene, the sharpness in the eyes, the set of the jaw, the tiny lines at the mouth that are the evidence of fifty years of smiling and directing and saying "more frosting" and "the rolls need time" and "your pie crust is thick." The portrait is Marlene. Not the thin, tired, chemo-diminished Marlene but the real Marlene, the one underneath, the one that the cancer can't reach because the cancer can touch the body but not the Marlene-ness of Marlene, and Emma's pencils found that Marlene-ness and put it on paper.

I made Marlene's cinnamon rolls while Emma drew. The kitchen smelled like butter and cinnamon and the charcoal-pencil scratch of Emma's hand moving across the paper. Two forms of art, happening simultaneously: the visual art of a twelve-year-old drawing her grandmother and the culinary art of a forty-year-old making her mother's recipe. Both acts of preservation. Both attempts to hold onto something that is slipping away. The portrait will last. The cinnamon rolls will be eaten. But the morning — the Saturday morning in a Grinnell kitchen where a grandmother sat and a granddaughter drew and a daughter baked — the morning will last too, in the way that mornings last, which is in memory, which is the most durable medium, which is the only medium that matters.

Marlene’s cinnamon rolls have always had a drizzle that sets them apart — not a stiff powdered-sugar glaze but something looser, warmer, almost pourable, the kind that soaks into the spiral layers and pools in the valleys of the pan. This creamy cinnamon syrup is that finishing touch, the one Marlene always called “the last word,” and that Saturday morning while Emma’s pencil scratched softly across the sketchbook, I made sure the last word was just right.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 10 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 12

Ingredients

1/2 cup unsalted butter
1 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 tablespoon light corn syrup
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Instructions

Combine base ingredients. In a medium saucepan over medium heat, combine the butter, sugar, buttermilk, corn syrup, and cinnamon. Stir gently until the butter melts and the mixture begins to come together.
Bring to a boil. Increase heat slightly and bring the mixture to a full boil, stirring frequently. Allow it to boil for 5–7 minutes, continuing to stir so the bottom doesn’t scorch.
Add baking soda. Remove the pan from heat and carefully stir in the baking soda. The syrup will foam and puff up — this is expected. Stir until the foam settles and the syrup is smooth.
Finish with vanilla. Stir in the vanilla extract. The syrup will be golden, glossy, and fragrant.
Drizzle and serve. Pour warm over fresh-baked cinnamon rolls straight from the pan, allowing it to soak into the layers. Serve immediately for best results.

Nutrition (per serving)

Creamy Cinnamon Syrup — The Recipe That Filled the Kitchen While Emma Drew