Sibling Pays It Forward
Sonny and Curtis played a lot of pranks on Donna, and got her into some pretty precarious situations. But, don’t spend too much time feeling sorry for her, because she learned from their example to pay it forward.
I loved mother’s southern style, homemade yeast rolls better than anything! The woman could make bread! I watched her mix them many times. After mixing them, she would cover them with a dishtowel and place them in a warm place to activate the yeast. She allowed them at least five or six hours to rise double in bulk. When they were ready to roll out, she would flour the dough board, her hands, and the biscuit cutter. She would dip the roll in melted butter, fold it in half, place them on the pan, and let them rise again for an hour or so before she baked them. Oh MAMA! The aroma of that bread would drive me crazy until I could get my hands on one of them to eat. Donna was aware of my weakness for rolls. All the Payne’s have a weakness for those homemade yeast rolls!
I had come inside the house from playing in the yard. I was so hungry! “Mother left some roll dough in the refrigerator, why don’t you make rolls?’ Donna said. I should have picked up on her sarcasm right away, but the thunder from my rolling stomach drowned out the slur in her tone of voice.
I ran to the fridge and found the ball of dough, just as she had said. I melted the butter, kneaded the dough, rolled it out, dipped it and waited for my rolls to rise. I waited about an hour and went back to check on them. They hadn’t risen at all. I thought that maybe they would rise as they baked, so I popped them into the oven.
Twelve minutes later, I went back to take my delicious rolls out of the oven. I wondered why I didn’t smell the yeast like I did when Mother made them. I shrugged my shoulders, sat down at the kitchen table, and buttered myself a roll. Slowly, I crunched down on the roll. Crunched was the appropriate choice of word. I could hear Donna laughing in the other room. I went after her! “That’s pie crust, you ninny!” I shrieked. “That was mean!”, I added, as I slapped her on the arm. She continued to laugh. I was so mad at her!
I explained what happened to Mother. She didn’t think it was funny, but she didn’t give me much sympathy either.
The moral of this story is “Doughn’t trust your sister!”