The recipe was penciled on the inside of the cabinet door. No title. No occasion. Six lines of ingredients, four lines of instruction. Just bread. She never mentioned it. The rolls just appeared.

Her mother made it when there was nothing. Grandma made it her whole life long after there was any financial reason to. She served it in the good bowls every time. Not the everyday ones. The good ones.

Grandma won first place, the recipe card had been tucked inside her old romance novel, Hearts on the Prairie. She had underlined whole paragraphs of dramatic longing, but in the back of the book, right where the lovers reunited under the setting sun, was the recipe: