It all started when I made a batch of my famous cinnamon buns. Taking around 23 hours from start to plate, and weighing in at approximately 15,000 calories each, I only make them about once a semester. When I do, it's a big deal. What starts as a closed guest list quickly spreads, and my apartment usually ends up with around 20 people in it. We eat, we laugh, we watch a movie of some sort, and that's basically that.
This particular cinnamon bun party was in mid January. I remember that because my recital was in about 5 weeks. The party was planned, the invitations were sent, the dough was mixed, and I was sad that Jolene wasn't going to be able to be there, since at the time she was living at home, 5 hours away, and already had plans to visit her former roommate and her husband in the Adirondacks.
The buns were in the oven, Imogen Heap was on the stereo, and the first guest had arrived. I had already switched into host mode, so when there came a knock at the door, I hopped out of my chair and threw it open. Jolene was standing there. I let the door swing shut in shock. I was absolutely stunned, despite the joking text message I had just sent her saying 'are you almost here? they're in the oven', to which she replied 'almost'.
Surprisingly, this is not the point of this story. While eating heavenly cinnamon buns and getting a surprise visit from your significant other are exciting things, they are merely the conditions that allowed the adventure (of which you are about to read) to grow. The seeds were planted, and they sprouted the next day.