The year was 2013. The Morelands were hosting Thanksgiving and, given that my hands were full (or so I thought), I showed up with only a pumpkin pie.. nothing else. I caught no end of flack for not bringing my signature rolls and Kenny scrambled to make some of his own. No one but me thought it was pertinent that I had not been requested to bring anything, let alone rolls.
Fast forward to 2014. Hoping to avoid the roll wreck of last year, I confirmed, on several occasions, that I would be bringing rolls. The day before Thanksgiving I made them.. they came out only so-so, so I rose early on T-Day to make another batch.. they came out perfectly tender.
We arrive at the Morelands and I bring my rolls to the kitchen. What do I find, but some rolls rising in the corner. No. Fucking. Way. I should've accidentally knocked them to the floor and stepped on them. But I didn't. I let them live out of respect and pity.
I went about the festivities, knowing that my rolls would have their moment, even with competition. The bird was done. It was time to plate up. I go out to the kitchen only to find my rolls already in a basket. Warm. Hard. Dry. To add salt to my wound, someone, probably a good samaritan (but possibly an insider looking to stack the game), put my delicious, tender, just-needed-to-be-microwaved-for-15-seconds rolls in the fiery oven of doom. I'm surprised I didn't hear their screams from the living room. Their poor, poor, roll-souls.