You Gotta Roll With It

There’s a certain eccentric charm to the small hamlet in which I live and my eldest son (aka “Frasier” for the purpose of this blog) has likened it more than once to Portlandia with hilarious accuracy.

Here is a timely example extracted from a simple drop-in at one of the nearby cake-shops:

ME: Hello, I’d like half a dozen whole wheat rolls please.

SHOP ASSISTANT: [Warily] Rolls?

ME: [Brightly] Yes. Whole wheat please.

SHOP ASSISTANT: Do you mean rolls – or buns? Rolls are a 2 oz. size difference and there is a noticeable variance in crumb texture. Buns are distinctly larger of course and come in a variety of shapes. Soooo which.do.you.actually.mean?

ME: [Flustered] Oh I’m sorry, I did not realize. I do want buns. Half a dozen please.

SHOP ASSISTANT: [Eyebrow arched] We don’t have buns today. Only rolls.

I’d like to dazzle you now with my witty reply but I had none – it’s a deeply discouraging part of my personality that even though I am no longer a gangly yoof I still allow store clerks to shame me. This was of course a totally ridiculous exchange and more hardboiled folks than I, might have made some helpful suggestions as to where those buns might be dispatched. But unless I prepare for every shop encounter like a job interview, I will always be caught off-guard by this type of unexpected grandstanding. Anyway – it matters not. I bought a dozen rolls (you might recall I only wanted six but it was a bargain just to get out of the shop) and stepped out into the clear, brittle sunshine of winter, clutching my brown bag, breathing in that warm, yeasty fragrance and noting that humiliation aside, I do absolutely love these buns … er … rolls.