For many years we had a neighbor who was often at odds with members of my extended family.  We bent over backwards to get along with the lady and her husband, but our personal contacts were rare because of the differences which simmered beneath the surface.

The lady became a widow, and lived alone a half mile down the hill from our house.  One day Margie walked down the road to get our mail from the mailbox that stood in front of the lady’s home.  The lady saw her, yelled from her door, and asked, “Do you still bake bread?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you ever make cinnamon rolls?”

“Yes, but I haven’t for a long time.”

“I’ve been so hungry for cinnamon rolls lately.  I ordered one at the café, but the one they brought me was gray and raw.  It was doughy!  I complained to the waitress about it, but she said that’s the way people like them nowadays.  I couldn’t eat it.”

“Well, next time I bake bread, I’ll make you a cinnamon roll.”

“Have you baked bread yet this week?”

“Not yet, but I’ll do it today, just for you.”

Margie turned to go, and the lady called out one last question:  “You plump your raisins, don’t you!?”

“Sure, I’ll make sure to plump the raisins,” Margie called back.  “Just try to hang on, Shirley.”

Margie said later, “Up to that point I’d never plumped the raisins before I baked cinnamon rolls.  They are much better that way.”