late night cinnamon rolls
by McKenna Hutchinson
I’ve always dealt with stress in an unconventional way. Well, maybe not unconventional, but my time of day is the problem. Binge eating and compulsive cleaning never appealed to me. Staying up till sunrise to try a brand-new recipe for German chocolate cake—that’s what fits my fancy. I started baking in middle school, on and off, and then in undergrad, when things got too stressful, baking became the only way to clear my head. And it only seemed to work in the middle of the night. By law school, it had turned into an almost nightly routine.
Having my own apartment gave me freedom. I didn’t have to worry about roommates anymore, and my classmates were always happy during exam season with the freshly baked bagels or cheesecake cupcakes. My ritual never caused problems—until recently. That’s when I started getting notes slipped under my door: “Can you please be normal and go to sleep? Sincerely, your downstairs neighbor.”
I stopped for a moment. My downstairs neighbor had always been old and hard of hearing. For years, she never noticed my mixers or the dinging oven. But now, apparently, someone was paying attention. I didn’t stop baking, but I became self-conscious. I’d tiptoe around the apartment, lowering the mixer, softening the oven’s beep—but every morning, there was still a sticky note on my door.
Finally, a few knocks came one night. I opened the door, hands dusted with flour, my favorite purple apron smudged with chocolate, cinnamon rolls rising on the counter.
She stood there, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she asked.
“Two-thirty, last I checked. I’m sorry if I’m loud,” I said, blinking at her. “Baking… it’s how I deal with stress.”
She sniffed the air, eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s three. Some of us have jobs and need sleep.”
“I do have a job,” I blurted defensively. “Never mind. I’m sorry for the noise.”
“What are you making tonight?” she asked, glancing at the tray of rolls. The buttery smell, the swirl of cinnamon, the sweet caramelized sugar wafting from the oven, it seemed to soften her expression.
“Cinnamon rolls. They’ll be done in thirty minutes. If you want, you can come in and try one. I also make a mean cup of coffee. As a peace offering, I always make way too many for one person.”
She looked at me, hesitating, then said, “I’ll take you up on that. I’m already awake anyway.”
Her name was Sara. Over the next few weeks, she became part of my late-night baking ritual. She was a software engineer, so she had a job, but it didn’t require early mornings. My secret baking, my private escape, was now witnessed by someone who didn’t rush me or judge me.
At first, it was awkward. Baking has always been my time to myself. I’d mumble to myself while measuring flour, counting sugar, and scraping chocolate. Now someone was there, watching. But Sara didn’t leave. She asked questions, made small jokes, and eventually, I started explaining why I baked at odd hours.
“In undergrad, I struggled to sleep from stress,” I said one night. “One evening, I made a box cake, and it became a thing. Baking became the one thing I could control. Finding the recipe, gathering ingredients, following the steps, watching it bake, and then sharing it—it all became a ritual.”
“Well, I’m glad you let me disrupt your ritual, and get some decent coffee and cinnamon rolls,” she said with a smile.
“I’m happy to get rid of the sweets,” I replied, laughing, lifting a bicep. “This physique doesn’t come easy.”
Sara would sit at my kitchen island, watching me knead dough or fold chocolate chips. Slowly, I got used to her presence. My muttering resumed, my habitual counting and self-reminders filled the kitchen once more. And even with my inner monologue in full swing, she stayed.
Some nights didn’t go perfectly. Dough refused to rise, sugar bubbled over, the oven timer screeched like an alarm clock. I’d curse quietly under my breath, flustered by the imperfection. She’d laugh, but kindly, not mocking. Baking, once my stress escape, now carried a small tension: someone was watching, sharing my process, and sometimes that was harder than baking alone.
Over time, our friendship grew. Baking remained my ritual, but it was no longer solitary. Sara moved into the apartment below. The old neighbor never noticed the midnight clatter of mixing bowls and timers, but Sara did—and she liked it. She laughed at the aromas of cinnamon, butter, and caramelizing sugar that crept through the apartment, and she joined me for bites straight from the oven.
Sleep still came, though differently now. I’d rest lightly on the counter, inhaling the warm scent of freshly baked rolls, waking to rotate trays or pull the next batch from the oven. The early morning sun filtered through the windows, soft and gold, marking the end of another night-long ritual.
Baking used to be my solitary escape, my way to control chaos. Now, it’s imperfect and shared. Cinnamon rolls still rise and caramelize in the oven, coffee still steams in mugs, and flour still dusts my hands, but the quiet companionship makes the process sweeter. Late-night baking isn’t just my stress relief anymore, it’s our ritual, a bond forged in sugar, butter, and the soft hum of an oven at three in the morning.
Photo of McKenna Hutchinson
BIO: McKenna Hutchinson is a sophomore at Rocky Mountain College in Billings, Montana, where she studies Biology and Creative Writing. She is an avid romance reader with a love for science. McKenna currently works as an EMT and hopes to become a Physician Assistant in the future.