Gramma moved in with us after Grandpa died. Initially, she moved into my bedroom (and I moved into an open, unfinished space in the basement). The following summer, we built an addition onto the house for her. The “granny suite”. A suite, that after she passed away, all three of us kids lived in.

From 1987 on (the year Gramma moved in) she baked buns for us to enjoy at Christmas (and sometimes at points in between). They affectionately were dubbed ‘Gramma’s buns’. The not so clever double entendre not lost on my quite religious, but not naive 70something Grandmother.

Light, pillowy, tender, and delicious. I can smell them and the idea of eating them makes my mouth water and, I want to go home and make them… Except that is the problem.

Though I was in the kitchen with her frequently, even with the intent to learn how to bake her buns, I don’t know how. I spent many Christmases with her learning how to make buns. I did everything with her yet retained nothing. Was that her magic power? Give the gift and take it away? No, we spent the time chatting. She would share memories about her time on the farm growing up.

Her parents immigrated to Canada from Sweden in the very early 1900’s. She was likely the second child born in Canada, born in 1913. Her memory was sharp, and I loved listening to her stories from the farm. While the work was hard and the labor intense (and often, cruel) she had one memory she loved.

Her mother and father had gone to town. She and her many brothers and sisters had decided to try and ride the livestock. Donning her father’s brand-new overalls, to protect her dress, she climbed the fence. Positioning herself to land on the bull as it came through the shoot, spurred on by her older brother. Down she went, missing and landing in the mud and muck! “Oh no!” she cried, her brothers and sisters holding their breath. Knowing their parents were due home shortly. What was she to do! Father’s overalls were covered in filth, she told me. She was a dead girl, for certain!

She quickly took them off and filled the wash basin and got the washboard and soap and began to scrub them. Hoping by hope she could get them clean. Gramma was scrubbing away when her parents rode up, coming to the barn. Upon seeing what she was doing, her Dad climbed out of the wagon and came over to her… “Oh! Annie! What a good girl you are! Washing my new overalls. Thank you so much!”

The buns were an (almost) all day affair. There were several hours spent letting them rise (I lack patience for this). I also cannot figure out how much yeast she put in! I have her ‘recipe’, several of them, they are vague and non-descript. While they say, “Gramma’s buns” (or “Sweet buns”) they clearly aren’t her recipe. Or if they are, she did something else to them that wasn’t noted down. After she passed, the recipe was gone with her. But our need to eat her buns remained.

Since I was the one who helped her the most, I decided I needed to try and unlock the key to the recipe. So I’ve tried and tried. While we no longer do a larger family Christmas any longer, I still would like to share some of these, and some cheer with anyone who would want some.

While I have come pretty close, the jury is still undecided. My brother and sister say this is ‘close’ but not quite exact. In my mind, it is the best replica I’ve come up with to date.

Gramma’s bun recipe