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Last Wednesday evening The Main Street Hookers decided to mix it up a bit. We put down our frames and projects for a social. I invited the crew home to my house for doughnuts. Sugar highs all around and the sweet smell of cake doughnuts and deep fat clogged our pores, and probably an artery or two, but in the moment if one was unlucky enough to drop dead, what a way to go baby!
For me doughnuts are a childhood memory, to be exact one of the top rated links to my past. For me food is comfort, transporting me back to simpler times when a grandmother kept a tin of doughnuts in her panty and the smell of deep fat painted on her walls and embedded in the draperies almost drove me delirious. Like living in an old fashioned bakery, so sweet that even looking in the tin caused a toothache.
I was craving my nana’s doughnuts for months but fear kept me from hauling out my mother’s old electric fryer. I knew their power and my blood sugar couldn’t handle it. Oh the delicious cake doughnut, with a crisp outer crust and soft doughy inside and subtle nutmeg influence. The smell and taste decrees one is too many and a thousand is not enough. Hubby would have found me in the closet with crumbs on my chest babbling incoherently as the diabetic coma slowly engulfed me.
So I figured if I had the gals over for doughnuts and made them promise to fill their stomachs and a Ziploc baggie on their way out the door, I’d be safe. No leftovers, no death. I’d test a few; get them out of my system and move on to the next memory, shortbread cookies.
My house smelled of deep fat and doughnuts for three days but there wasn’t any complaining. It was sweet perfume. Why they don’t actually invent a cologne to dab behind the ears is a mystery. Men would follow you home, even better, dogs would follow you home! Hey Dragons Den what do you think?
Anyway, we had a blast. My two assistants were a great help, thanks Anne and Deana, coating them in either plain sugar or a cinnamon and sugar blend and serving them to the appreciative crowd kept me overseeing the hot fat. I managed to sample enough to fill the craving. I prefer mine plain, not letting anything get in the way of the flavour and my memory.
There were groans as we all sampled the wares. It would have been a good night to wear stretchy pants; they were headed for the hips anyway, so why fight it? Someone commented their sugar scores were up the next day, I didn’t get my meter out as I’m not sure if it registers triple digits. Anyway, it was a fun night, not one to do often but it should be a once a year tradition, maybe during warmer months so I can deep fry them outside or at least open the doors and windows.
There’s more fun on the horizon, our annual Christmas pot luck dinner is next week. Food and games and lots of laughs, that’s the way we hooker’s roll!
For me doughnuts are a childhood memory, to be exact one of the top rated links to my past. For me food is comfort, transporting me back to simpler times when a grandmother kept a tin of doughnuts in her panty and the smell of deep fat painted on her walls and embedded in the draperies almost drove me delirious. Like living in an old fashioned bakery, so sweet that even looking in the tin caused a toothache.
I was craving my nana’s doughnuts for months but fear kept me from hauling out my mother’s old electric fryer. I knew their power and my blood sugar couldn’t handle it. Oh the delicious cake doughnut, with a crisp outer crust and soft doughy inside and subtle nutmeg influence. The smell and taste decrees one is too many and a thousand is not enough. Hubby would have found me in the closet with crumbs on my chest babbling incoherently as the diabetic coma slowly engulfed me.
So I figured if I had the gals over for doughnuts and made them promise to fill their stomachs and a Ziploc baggie on their way out the door, I’d be safe. No leftovers, no death. I’d test a few; get them out of my system and move on to the next memory, shortbread cookies.
My house smelled of deep fat and doughnuts for three days but there wasn’t any complaining. It was sweet perfume. Why they don’t actually invent a cologne to dab behind the ears is a mystery. Men would follow you home, even better, dogs would follow you home! Hey Dragons Den what do you think?
Anyway, we had a blast. My two assistants were a great help, thanks Anne and Deana, coating them in either plain sugar or a cinnamon and sugar blend and serving them to the appreciative crowd kept me overseeing the hot fat. I managed to sample enough to fill the craving. I prefer mine plain, not letting anything get in the way of the flavour and my memory.
There were groans as we all sampled the wares. It would have been a good night to wear stretchy pants; they were headed for the hips anyway, so why fight it? Someone commented their sugar scores were up the next day, I didn’t get my meter out as I’m not sure if it registers triple digits. Anyway, it was a fun night, not one to do often but it should be a once a year tradition, maybe during warmer months so I can deep fry them outside or at least open the doors and windows.
There’s more fun on the horizon, our annual Christmas pot luck dinner is next week. Food and games and lots of laughs, that’s the way we hooker’s roll!
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