I love Parkerhouse rolls. You know, the cheap brown ‘n’ serve ones you buy in the supermarket. My mother called them “gluey rolls” because duh…but me, I could never get enough of them. It isn’t a holiday without rolls.
So one day, I got the most awful craving for gluey rolls. Out of the blue. I was about fifteen. We lived in the ass-end of nowhere and the nearest store was miles away, so I got my mother to help me make a batch of standard white dinner rolls.
I did the work while she kept a supervisory eye on me. Then, right at the end, before the last rise, she took a pastry scraper and made an indentation in the middle of each one, so they wouldn’t be too thick and bready.
But after she shaped them, she looked at the rolls, and she looked at me, and I looked at her, and I looked at the rolls, and we looked at each other looking at the rolls, and the rolls looked like…eh, well you can see what the rolls looked like.
And forever after, homemade gluey rolls were known as pussy rolls in my family.
So, I have just made the most hellacious batch of pussy rolls for tomorrow (make them up a day ahead, leave them on the counter overnight wrapped in aluminum foil, then heat them in the foil for about twenty minutes. Good as new, and one less job on the day). It is officially Thanksgiving eve!
I’m going to have a slightly odd Turkey Day this year. I’ll blog about it tomorrow, if I’m spared — between hot buttered pussy rolls.