Every year since I was a little girl, my mom and I have spent a winter day making doughnuts. As years passed, sisters, sisters-in-law, and recently a few granddaughters, joined us in Mom's kitchen. Yesterday was our annual doughnut making day, though it wasn't Fausnaught Day, the traditional day for making doughnuts.
This year we dumped a twenty-five pound bag of flour and untold amounts of sugar into numerous batches of my mom's potato doughnuts.
We never did count the doughnuts since we started eating them as soon as the first one came out of the fryer.
(Neither did we count calories.)
We filled containers for each family to freeze, plus some plates of doughnuts to share with neighbors, while our children ransacked Grandma's house with their cousins. Soup was pulled out for lunch, for anyone who still had an appetite.
Last Christmas, my mom had sewn aprons for all the women and girls of the family with directions that we bring them to Doughnut Day. Surprisingly, none of us forgot.
But this day won't otherwise be remembered as an example of my good memory.
I arrived home in the mid-afternoon with a vanload of tired children and Tupperware filled with fresh doughnuts. I handed each child an armload to carry to the house and was looking longingly at the couch when I remembered. The chicken! On the way home, I had planned to pick up a case of chicken ordered at a local butcher shop for a sweetheart supper later in the week.
What could I do but herd the children back into their car seats and backtrack to the butcher shop? Arriving, I parked the van, reached for my purse, and found it missing. A thorough search of the van—and still no purse. Then I realized the four year old, given the responsibility of carrying my diaper bag to the house, had done his duty.
Back in the van again, for another trip home. I was going to completely miss naptime. And I had no one to blame for this ridiculous afternoon but myself.
I forced myself to find a way to redeem the wasted time. I had been trying to teach the children they are responsible for the way they react to unpleasant circumstances. We now discussed our choice between frustration and acceptance. It took all my will power to choke back my complaints and instead help the children sing.
A quick stop at the house for the purse, another trip to the butcher shop (this road was becoming far too familiar), and finally we arrived. That can't be a "closed" sign in the window! It was. I had forgotten that the butcher shop closed early on Mondays.
By now, I was ready to bang on the door and force someone to give me my chicken.
Or at least timidly knock.
An elderly lady came to my assistance, listened to my sob story, and graciously ushered me to the back room. There are advantages to supporting home businesses. Walmart would never have been so kind. But then, neither would Walmart close at 3:30 on a Monday afternoon!
Soon a man was loading my chicken into my van. I even had a fresh doughnut handy to express my thanks. I traveled the road home for the sixth, and thankfully final, time. If any neighbors were watching my frantic trips up and down our road, they must have wondered if I had lost my mind.
Maybe I have. Wonder where I left it?
Can a doughnut restore lost brain cells?