Road Journals Blog—The presentation makes a statement. The cinnamon roll, triple the size of a Rubik’s cube, arrives with a steak knife stuck upright through its gooey, cinnamon-y, butter sauce-topped heart.
To the ballcap-clad diners around me—all given away as regulars by their indifference to this confectionary marvel, as true Parisians are exposed by their indifference to Eiffel’s tower—I try to project an image of profound contemplation.
I am considering the marvelousness of this cinnamon roll, which is made fresh daily from Monday through Friday at Sherrie’s Place .
Actually, I am working up my courage. I cannot just cut willy-nilly into this brick of baked perfection. It’d be like deconstructing David  with a chainsaw.
Unlike most every other cinnamon roll I have encountered in my 30-some years, this one does not have an obvious edge that, after a certain amount of unraveling, leads to the center. At first glance (and second), this roll is impenetrable.
I guess that’s why it came with a steak knife.
I consider several methods of attack before the watering in my mouth threatens to exit as drool. Finally I just shut my eyes and make a random slice.
I end up cutting off a corner. Trading knife for fork, I swirl the bite around in the pond of butter sauce on the plate.
Twenty minutes later, most of the butter sauce gone, police sirens sound nearby. One of the well-weathered, sky-eyed men at a nearby table pipes up, joking, “Sherri, they’re coming for you!” I don't say it out loud, but the man is wrong. “They’re coming for me,” I whisper to myself. “It’s a crime I can’t finish this cinnamon roll.”
Dina Mishev wrote about Casper, Wyo., for the September/October 2011 issue  of VIA.
This blog post was first published in September 2011. Some facts may have aged gracelessly. Please call ahead to verify information.