DOUGHNUTS

DOUGHNUTS

                Yesterday, my daughter and I went to our local farm market/grocery for our weekly supply of fruit, vegetables, meat, and whatever we needed. The smell of fresh-baked cider doughnuts tantalized us we walked across the parking lot to the store.

                The smell prompted a memory.

All summer my dad worked tirelessly to fill the hayloft with enough fresh hay to winter the fifty to sixty animals that depended on him. In the fall he cut corn silage and filled the silo. Then satisfied that everyone would be fed, he could relax a little. There was always something that needed to be fixed or wood to be cut for the kitchen stove.

                Then on a cold rainy day, Mom and Dad would decide to make doughnuts.

                As a young girl, I remember coming into our farmhouse from school with the smell of doughnuts frying on the stove. My mother was at the kitchen cabinet rolling out the dough and punching them out with the doughnut cutter. Dad dropped them into the fat and flipped them over when they popped up with one side already brown. Done, he lifted them out and dropped them on a towel to absorb the extra grease.

By the end of the afternoon, there would be twelve dozen or more. Some stayed in the kitchen for eating during the next few days. The rest went into a large crock in the cellar where they stayed moist and delicious. Whenever my uncle came to visit or work (he was a plumber), he disappeared immediately into the cellar to come up with a couple of doughnuts.

                I loved the fresh hot doughnuts – crusty and so good. Just plain was fine, but I think Mom sometimes sprinkled some with confectioners sugar on some.

                Yes, as we left the market yesterday, the smell drew us directly to those cider doughnuts and we took some home with us.


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