But that day I woke up feeling like I had to create something; something warm, homely, softly scented. Something that speaks for me. And so I decided: I'm going to bake cinnamon rolls. Not for perfection, not for a photo for social networks, but for my friends. For the few people I don't meet every day, but who I carry with me everywhere - in my thoughts, in my gratitude and in a sense of belonging that not every relationship gives.
I prepared the flour, warm milk, butter, sugar and yeast. Nothing special, nothing luxurious. But as these ingredients stood in front of me, I thought that it's like friendship: simple, sometimes humble things make something that smells like home. Something that holds you together in the toughest moments.
As I kneaded the dough, I thought about the people who have (re)stood by me over the past months. About the conversations that made me pick myself up. The voices that said, »Zala, I'm here.« The hugs that stayed in and around my body like a soft, silent strength. I kneaded the dough much longer than necessary. Maybe because I was looking for answers to my questions in that soft ball. Maybe because I wanted them to feel how much I wanted to give them.
After the dough rested, I made the filling - cinnamon, butter and brown sugar. The smell permeated the kitchen like a warm memory. Cinnamon has always smelled like people to me. A community. The feeling of belonging somewhere, even if it's just a small circle of people who understand you. Cinnamon is the spice of belonging. And that day, it smelled even more familiar.
I rolled out the dough, gently spread the filling on it and slowly rolled it into a long, soft roll. I laughed to myself at the thought of how they would react. How they would open the box and stand there for a moment. That tiny moment when you feel, »Someone was thinking of me.«
The sliced rolls were waiting on the baking tray like little, innocent wrappers. And they hid more than they showed. They carried gratitude, memory and a silent message: »I see you. I appreciate you. Thank you for being you.«
When the oven rang, the rolls were golden brown, soft and slightly caramelised. The smell spread through the apartment like a hug. I stopped at that moment and thought that this was a healing smell. That lifts you up. That gives you back the feeling that you are not walking alone.
I took them to my friends in the afternoon. Without unnecessary drama and without announcing it beforehand. I rang the bell and simply handed them the box. »For you,« I said. Their faces said it all. That warm, slightly surprised look. The heartfelt words, »Thank you, Zala,« that hit deep and soft. I felt clearly then how important it is to have your own circle. My own mini community. People who keep you upright when you are running out of strength.
On my way home, I thought about how sometimes it takes so little to warm someone up. To tell someone that they belong to you. To be connected, even when life is throwing everyone to their own end.
And there, on the path between the houses, I whispered quietly to myself, »Friendship is like dough - it grows when you give it time, warmth and heart.« It was then that I realised that this was not a gesture of kindness, but something else. For me, belonging is not about seeing someone often or being connected all the time. It's knowing who you can ring for no reason. It's that people know you even on the days when you're not social, when you're not fun, when you don't have the energy to explain yourself. These friends stayed when there was nothing to share but myself. And that day, I didn't bake to make them happy, but because I felt they were my space. As something where I belong. The cinnamon rolls were just tangible proof of that - a small, warm way to show them that I carry them with me, even as we go our separate ways.
Zala Krupljan, 11. 11. 2025
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