When I opened the can, tearing off the little silver piece, only the tinniest sliver of wrapping comes off leaving no way for the can to POP open.
Sarah and the kids are still sleeping so I can't beat the Hell out of it on the counter top.
Pillsbury and its frigging little Doe Boy makes me cuss.
Taking a butcher knife I stab the cute little SOB and cut the can.
POP ... doe magically appears from the wound.
Shards of Pillsbury Doe Boy and his defective can fall to the floor ... which makes me smile.
In spite of the false promises of Pillsbury marketing of easy open cans, I bake five Cinnamon Rolls, slather them with icing and watch Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, eat the tops.
"Why aren't you eating the bottoms?"
"They're burnt," she tells me.
"When did golden brown become burnt?"
She shrugs her shoulders leaving the bottom of five Cinnamon Rolls on her plate.
Leaving her to finish the chocolate milk, I stroll outside to the Beloved Back Deck realizing how much cooking Cinnamon Rolls is like life.
Everything seems perfect when we start, largely because we believe all the false promises that everything is perfect.
In actuality most everything is defective ... you, me, the world and the way things really work.
Discovering this makes us angry forcing us to lash out at the beliefs in perfection and the false Prophets who sold us such crock.
In spite of this we somehow figure out a way to make it work.
Even when we pull things off ... even miraculously! ... not everyone is pleased.
That's Life!
I may as well accept it.
Damn little Pillsbury Doe Boy!
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