Cinnabon Story

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Once upon a time (aka: this past weekend) I found myself in a mall, the Glendale Galleria, wandering around looking for patio furniture with Craig. Not that we have a patio, but we have a front porch at our new place and figured we’d get some cheap outdoor chairs and a table and sit out there while drinking coffee on weekend mornings or while sipping a glass of wine in the evening. Funny, though, the last time I went out there to soak in the scenery, I saw a fancy car pull up to the alley across the street. A man got out, he looked around (didn’t see me) and promptly peed on a dumpster. Still: we wanted patio furniture.

Only, Target didn’t have what we were looking for and neither did J.C. Penny. At some point, I felt a bit peckish and we wandered over to the food court. We knew it was the Food Court because of this sign:

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“Oooh,” said Craig. “I’m getting a Cinnabon.”

“Ok,” I said. “I’ll have some.”

Here’s the Cinnabon we bought:

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I was going to structure this post as a story of me being snobby and turning up my nose at the Cinnabon, but the truth is I didn’t turn up my nose at it at all. I ate half. Maybe more than half. It was sticky, buttery, sweet and slightly salty.

“It’s like the most perfectly calibrated pastry ever,” said Craig. “They must have teams of people working out the perfect ratio of sugar to cinnamon to salt.”

Mmmhmm. Pretty soon, this:

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Scholars may ask: “What was the point of this post?”

It’s an important question. But, basically, we ate a Cinnabon and didn’t find any patio furniture. Now you know.

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