Here in the land of beignets (Rich brought one from Cafe du Monde so sugary that the bottom of the little bag was pure powder) I have been thinking about that simplest of flour items–fried dough. There are the funnel cakes of Delaware, apple cider doughnuts of New England, Native fry bread that can be filled to make a hearty Navajo taco (paradoxically I had one at Hopi), and a variety of Southern fritters. In Israel there is a kind of fried dough served for Hannukah–if my memory serves, with jam. Then there is my favorite–the lowly jelly doughnut.
When i was pregnant I had morning sickness morning, noon, and night. I lost weight. I could eat two things–carne adovada and doughnuts. I’d schlep myself across Cerrilloes Road to the Dunk’in Doughnuts–even more decrepit than it is now–haul myself up on a stool, and order myself a cup of coffee and two doughnuts.
“You sure know how to treat yourself right,” commented an inebriated derelict sitting next to me, who obviously didn’t know much about pre-natal care.
At the end of the pregnancy I weighed what I had at the start. Doctors yelled at me, but I just couldn’t eat. Ready to deliver, I bought a dozen doughnuts and picked at them until they were gone. Then I ate a bowl of oatmeal, and went into labor.
“What is the last thing you ate?’ asked the nurse.
“A bowl of oatmeal,” I said virtuously.
My beautiful daughter turns 22 next month. Looking at her i am relieved of any residual guilt about those doughnuts. I did take pre-natal vitamins, though.