The Nun Bun Talks 

A nunbunch of questions for a missing cinnamon roll

Owing to the Scene’s close connections to the city’s confectionary community and its trusted relationships with notorious hijackers of baked goods, this newspaper was able to secure an interview recently with the Nun Bun, who’s been missing since Christmas.
by Tim Kurtzweil Owing to the Scene’s close connections to the city’s confectionary community and its trusted relationships with notorious hijackers of baked goods, this newspaper was able to secure an interview recently with the Nun Bun, who’s been missing since Christmas. Your recent appearances on national television have made you somewhat of a celebrity, Nun Bun. Have you gotten many requests for interviews? I’m not exactly inunbundated with them—perhaps because no one knows my whereabouts. I am, after all, currently kidnapped—or worse. Indeed. Some people might wonder how I can be conducting this interview with you. A bit of a conunbundrum, it would seem, but the Baker bakes in mysterious ways. Well said. You’re quite articulate, and, for someone with a scrunched-up face and lips that appear to be shellacked shut, you speak very clearly. I was on the “celebrity look-a-like” cinnamon roll debate team in high school, and our coach was a stickler for enunbunciation. So Mother Teresa is not the only person of distinction immortalized in pastry? No. And it’s worth noting that not all nun buns are nuns. Next to myself, the most famous nun bun in America is probably the Easter NunBunny, followed closely by the fabled lumberjack, Paul Nunbunyan. And don’t forget the former Democratic senator from Georgia, Sam Nunnbun. Of course, there’s also the English author of “Pastry’s Progress,” John Nunbunyan, as well as the Russian poet and novelist Ivan Alekseyevich Nunbunin. So, while nun buns aren’t a dime a baker’s dozen, they do pop up now and again. And it’s not just cinnamon rolls that do celebrity “face-saving” work. Every culture has its own medium. I’m sure Goethe’s visage is preserved on a giant pretzel somewhere in Germany. You don’t feel you have pride of place among them, feel you were chosen by God? Chosen to do what? Before being stolen, I lay on a bed of plush purple felt in a display case for nine years! I make day-old bakery look positively fresh. Look, when I was pulled out of the oven, there was a local press release, but no heavenly heralds trumpeted my coming; there was no Anunbunciation. I’m not a miniature Mary, after all, here to bear the bun that saves the world. My aim is more modest: to draw attention to the good work of cinnamon rolls. Remember, man does not live by bread alone. On the other hand, look where “Let them eat cake!” got Marie Antoinette. A cinnamon roll is the golden mean; it’s tasty—mildly sweet, but not cloying—yet much healthier than, say, Death by Chocolate. Look at it this way: if white bread is blandly ultra-conservative fare, and cheesecake is over-the-top liberal excess, then cinnamon rolls are unifying nutritional centrists. We simply need to increase our numbers. Let’s talk about that. Despite the recent cloning scandal in Korea, incredible progress is being made in the field. Can you imagine there ever being a vast army of cloned Nun Buns—like orks in Lord of the Rings, but mass-produced by the forces of good—shipped out to feed the starving multitudes at breakfast tables all around the world? Can we hope for a nun bun miracle on the scale of fishes and loaves? Who’s going to provide all the coffee? Seriously, though, I was either the product of divine dough or the yeast of chance. But with or without a heavenly starter, it took evolution billions of years to produce human beings. You can’t just give a high-school student in the science lab some flour, sugar, eggs and a nunbunsen burner and expect him or her to produce a chewy little homunculus like me. Yet you sport a healthy layer of varnish. Isn’t that vanity? “Nunbunkum! Most women want to be allowed a little make-up once in a while, even if beauty is only cinnamon deep. Where are you, Nun Bun? Who’s got you, and how are you holding up? They closed the lid on my box when they abducted me, so I’m literally in the dark about my exact location. According to the poem, “Twas A Nun Bun Christmas,” I was dumped in the overweight, under-loved Claw Rover’s trunk, maybe by one of his henchmen—Dastard or Dullard, Coward or Zilch, Plunder or Purloin, Wheedle or Filch. As for my state of mind, well, I was a nunbundle of nerves in the beginning, but I’ve come to accept the situation. Is your heist likely to be solved? May we expect your safe return anytime soon? There’s not exactly an anunbundance of evidence. And will I be back? Only if my captors relent—or the Baker kneads me again.

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