The holidays and cinnamon go together like Mantle and Marris. It’s almost like you cannot have one without the other. A household can go all year without a taste of cinnamon but let the holiday season roll around and all of a sudden that little container of brown powder comes out of the cabinet.

Some of you start throwing cinnamon around like it’s fairy dust.

You’ve got your cinnamon coffee, your cinnamon apple pie, your cinnamon spiced hot tea. Cinnamon gets thrown at brownies, roasted nuts, pancakes, and baked turkeys. Fruit salads get dusted with cinnamon. You got cinnamon oatmeal. Cinnamon on sweet potato souffle. Cinnamon flavored jellybeans.

We even bring out the cinnamon scented candles just because it smells like The Season.

I happen to have an opinion on cinnamon. Not that you asked me for my opinion, but hey, it’s my story.

I think that cinnamon rolls are perhaps the only and best use of cinnamon ever invented. If there was ever handed down to mankind a perfect blend of bread, butter, cinnamon, sugar, and creamy icing, the cinnamon roll is the one gift to which I would defer every time.

The hostess offers, “Would you like a slice of cinnamon spice cake?”

“Hmm. . . do you have any homemade cinnamon rolls, instead?”

I know. I should keep my opinion to myself. You’re probably one of those who sprinkle cinnamon on everything in sight over the holidays. You order things like a cinnamon latte from one of those smug coffee bars. God-forbid, you could be one of those who use cinnamon year-round.

I don’t mean to offend, but I will contend to the day I die that the best cinnamon is the cinnamon roll. It’s the perfect match. Like Doc and Watson. Like Merle and Haggard. Like Santa and Claus. The two should never be separated by a conjunction. Cinnamon and Roll shall n’er be parted, and from this day forth the two shall be as one.

I had guests at my house on Saturday. Romona and Joe drove down from the little hamlet of Jenkinsburg, Georgia to visit with us and to take in the Christmas lights at Callaway that evening. They are church buddies and fishing buddies and traveling buddies of ours.

When they got out of the car Joe walked up toward the shop where I was. I waved down the hill. Romona was holding a cloth tote in her hands as she and Marion walked up the steps into the house. I didn’t think anything of it. They had come to eat supper with us. I just figured she brought something to add to the meal.

Come middle of the afternoon, we huddled up to the TV to watch the DAWGS play the Longhorns from Texas. The fan base was three to one in our group. Marion is a War Eagle fan. Bless her heart. The rest of us were pulling for the DAWGS to take home one last win before the playoffs.

Somewhere before the end of the first half, Marion and Romona got up and went around the corner into the kitchen. I could hear the chatter of voices and utensils. I could smell the aroma of beef tips from the crockpot. Supper was getting close.

I had forgotten all about the mysterious tote that had caught my eye earlier in the day.

Marion steps around the corner from the kitchen and stands in the doorway. “Look what Romona brought me.”

Georgia has a total of 9 yards against the Texas defense so far in the first half. I’m losing my mind, so the distraction helps. I look up and Marion is holding a pan of cinnamon rolls, freshly homemade I might add.

“Excuse me,” I say, “not just for you, but I believe those are for sharing.”

I have had Romona’s cinnamon rolls before. The bread is perfectly moist and smooth. She is a liberal user of butter. The frosting is made with love and confection. Her rolls not only melt in your mouth, but they cause visions of heaven to dance in your head.

“No,” says Marion. “These are going home with me. I’ll give some to the grandboys.”

I am taken back a little bit by this show of disrespect in my own home. I am confident that Romona would not bring this delicacy into my house with the intention of leaving me out in the cold. She wouldn’t do that. Would she?

The girls came back into the living room. After a few minutes, I got up off the couch to stoke the fireplace. I moved a few coals around, added a couple more logs, and aimlessly wandered off into the kitchen.

Undetected, I got out a sticky note, a black marker, and wrote a note which I placed on top of the cinnamon rolls.

“For Paul: DNE.”

Quietly, I made my way back to the couch. No sooner had I sat down than the girls headed for the kitchen again.

A shout came from around the corner. “What’s this?” I was busted.

Marion is standing in the doorway again. “DO NOT EAT,” she mocks. “I don’t think so.”

She took out a pen and wrote her own note. “These Belong to Marion.”

I don’t really remember what the note said because I took her note, crumpled it, and tossed it into the fireplace. The air was thick with cinnamon roll tension.

Somewhere during the 3rd quarter, the call for supper came. We devoured the beef tips and rice. I kept sliding my chair back where I could see into the living room and get a glimpse of the TV.

“How about some dessert?” someone said.

“We could have some cinnamon rolls,” another somebody said.

“I ain’t touching those cinnamon rolls,” I said.

It was about that time that Romona came up from behind me and plopped down a pan of cinnamon rolls. It took me a minute to realize that this pan was not the pan we’d been fussing about. This pan was bigger. And it had my name on it.

I hate it when the women folk plot against me. They knew the whole time that there was a second pan of cinnamon rolls. They just wanted to see me squirm.

So, I’m smiling now. I’m digging into a big old cinnamon roll in front of me.

I hear the crowd roar. I push back to get a look. The second I move, Marion swaps plates with me. She only has a small piece, barely a decent taste of cinnamon roll.

I’m focused on the game. Head turned. Fork in hand. Everybody at the table is laughing. I assume it’s because I’m watching the game more than I’m eating my cinnamon roll.

I scoot forward and turn back to my plate. The crowd roars again, which causes me to push back from the table again. This time the gang at the table is howling.

I scoot back to the table. “What?”

They roar.

I go to take a bite of cinnamon roll and finally recognize that my plate has been swapped. They’re not right.

Wounded though I was, I reclaimed my cinnamon roll.

And the DAWGS won.