I'm not sure what made me think about donuts this morning. The subject came up in the shower. It happened as I poured the shampoo. Could the consistency of the shampoo have reminded me of jelly? Because the fact of the matter is, I only really love jelly donuts. As for the shampoo to jelly relationship, I admit, food is never far from my mind. I myself lay this at the table of my Jewish heritage. We are a food is love based culture. Vist our house and we will offer you food, not a cocktail. We tend to drown our sorrows in Challah and butter, rather than scotch. I tell myself that there is some virtue in this; I’ll get a lot more accomplished before I succumb to the ravages of overeating than if I indulged in other methods of slow suicide. It usually takes far longer to go this way than by drinking or drugging oneself to death. My Aunt Mabel is a shining example. She was a very large woman and although her health wasn’t so great in the end, she was still moving around well into her nineties. But I digress.
The subject here is donuts. Specifically jelly donuts. The fact is, a good one is almost impossible to find. Great donuts do not come in boxes or cellophane packages. They are not made in store bakeries. And sorry, great donuts are not manufactured by Krispy Kreme either. Great donuts are made by great bakeries, which alas, have all but vanished from the landscape.
An acceptable glazed or honey dipped donut can be faked. [Can someone explain to me the difference between the two?] But a jelly donut cannot be counterfeited, although the afore mentioned landscape is strewn with such pretenders. I ask you, how dare the bakers of America put that horrible cornstarch based, artificially colored and flavored goop into the middle of a donut and call it jelly? Jelly is made from real fruit!
A real jelly donut has real jelly, surrounded by a light yeasty sweat bread that isn’t all fluff coated with granulated or powdered sugar—feel free to weigh in on your preference. It should have a bit of crust. Not a crusty crust, but a covering that my teeth must break to get to the soft insides. A bit of pressure is required for the crust to yield, else wise the jelly won’t squeeze out the sides. This characteristic—the oozing of the jelly—is important. Knowing I could end up with jelly all over myself adds to the guilty pleasure of “consummation.”
Donuts are best eaten only a few times a year because they are BAD for us. If they weren’t so bad they wouldn’t be nearly as good. I learned this secret early from my wonderful Aunt Marsha, who taught me lots of great things about life. Her best lesson was how to see the absurd in everyday situations—remind me to tell you her story about the soprano and the Christmas tree—but I digress again. The important point here is that the introduction of donuts to my life was nearly as important as my aunt’s lesson about everyday laughter.
Aunt Marsha always served donuts on the morning we cleaned the cottage at the cape in preparation for leaving and for the next renters to arrive. To make breakfast fast and easy, she served up donuts on paper plates to me, my sister, brother and cousins. This yearly event was both naughty and sublime because my mother didn’t believe in donuts. She didn’t believe in or approve of donuts the same way she didn’t believe in or approving of smoking or sleeping with men before a person married. (And for the record, mom is probably right about all of these things, but I did most of them anyway, more fool me.) So this was it. Once a year throughout my childhood, I indulged in an illicit donut or three.
This is a tradition I uphold today, although as an adult with more responsibilities on most days than illicit pleasures, I indulge my appetite for donuts a bit more often, say two or three times a year. After all, being an adult isn’t nearly as much fun as it looked when I was seven, so adult privileges must be enjoyed to the fullest. Why only two or three times? Because, eating a donut more often would shift the delicate balance of pleasure to guilt toward guilt and away from pleasure.
I have bestowed the love of the once-to-thrice a year donut on to my progeny. Each year, on the morning we leave the Cape, my daughter and I stop for a donut on our way home. Mom sits with us in clear disapproval, munching her whole wheat toast while we indulge. In her defense, it is only fair to mention that at 78, she is spry and lean and in very good health. Her lack of donut eating may have contributed to this. However, since we’ll never know for sure, I’ll continue with my naughty, donut eating ways.
If you know of a good donut anywhere in the country, please share the location. If you have a happy or sad donut memory or an illicit food pleasure to share, please, dish (pun intended).
In case you are traveling through Vermont, here’s my donut tip for you: the best donuts are made at the Middlebury Bake Shop in Middlebury, Vermont. Lucky for me there isn’t a good donut closer to home since my willpower is practically nonexistent. Perhaps this is just as well, since at least for me, a good donut is equal parts good baking and good badness.
The subject here is donuts. Specifically jelly donuts. The fact is, a good one is almost impossible to find. Great donuts do not come in boxes or cellophane packages. They are not made in store bakeries. And sorry, great donuts are not manufactured by Krispy Kreme either. Great donuts are made by great bakeries, which alas, have all but vanished from the landscape.
An acceptable glazed or honey dipped donut can be faked. [Can someone explain to me the difference between the two?] But a jelly donut cannot be counterfeited, although the afore mentioned landscape is strewn with such pretenders. I ask you, how dare the bakers of America put that horrible cornstarch based, artificially colored and flavored goop into the middle of a donut and call it jelly? Jelly is made from real fruit!
A real jelly donut has real jelly, surrounded by a light yeasty sweat bread that isn’t all fluff coated with granulated or powdered sugar—feel free to weigh in on your preference. It should have a bit of crust. Not a crusty crust, but a covering that my teeth must break to get to the soft insides. A bit of pressure is required for the crust to yield, else wise the jelly won’t squeeze out the sides. This characteristic—the oozing of the jelly—is important. Knowing I could end up with jelly all over myself adds to the guilty pleasure of “consummation.”
Donuts are best eaten only a few times a year because they are BAD for us. If they weren’t so bad they wouldn’t be nearly as good. I learned this secret early from my wonderful Aunt Marsha, who taught me lots of great things about life. Her best lesson was how to see the absurd in everyday situations—remind me to tell you her story about the soprano and the Christmas tree—but I digress again. The important point here is that the introduction of donuts to my life was nearly as important as my aunt’s lesson about everyday laughter.
Aunt Marsha always served donuts on the morning we cleaned the cottage at the cape in preparation for leaving and for the next renters to arrive. To make breakfast fast and easy, she served up donuts on paper plates to me, my sister, brother and cousins. This yearly event was both naughty and sublime because my mother didn’t believe in donuts. She didn’t believe in or approve of donuts the same way she didn’t believe in or approving of smoking or sleeping with men before a person married. (And for the record, mom is probably right about all of these things, but I did most of them anyway, more fool me.) So this was it. Once a year throughout my childhood, I indulged in an illicit donut or three.
This is a tradition I uphold today, although as an adult with more responsibilities on most days than illicit pleasures, I indulge my appetite for donuts a bit more often, say two or three times a year. After all, being an adult isn’t nearly as much fun as it looked when I was seven, so adult privileges must be enjoyed to the fullest. Why only two or three times? Because, eating a donut more often would shift the delicate balance of pleasure to guilt toward guilt and away from pleasure.
I have bestowed the love of the once-to-thrice a year donut on to my progeny. Each year, on the morning we leave the Cape, my daughter and I stop for a donut on our way home. Mom sits with us in clear disapproval, munching her whole wheat toast while we indulge. In her defense, it is only fair to mention that at 78, she is spry and lean and in very good health. Her lack of donut eating may have contributed to this. However, since we’ll never know for sure, I’ll continue with my naughty, donut eating ways.
If you know of a good donut anywhere in the country, please share the location. If you have a happy or sad donut memory or an illicit food pleasure to share, please, dish (pun intended).
In case you are traveling through Vermont, here’s my donut tip for you: the best donuts are made at the Middlebury Bake Shop in Middlebury, Vermont. Lucky for me there isn’t a good donut closer to home since my willpower is practically nonexistent. Perhaps this is just as well, since at least for me, a good donut is equal parts good baking and good badness.
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