Ulla and the Cake Donuts

Last week I had the worst hankering for a frosted cake donut. Not one of those airy sweet donuts from Krispy Kreme. Yuck. Way too sweet. I want a traditional donut that fits in the palm of my hand and crumbles in my mouth. It’s just about the only deep-fried goodness I’d allow myself to get sick over. There is something about a cake donut that calls to me. I even make a point of scanning the bakery every time I’m in the grocery store. Ask my husband. He’ll tell you. It’s a weakness. Aren’t they delightful?

We don’t even have a donut shop here in Hawaii. Can you believe that? Oh sure, there’s Leonard’s. But does that really count? Those are malasadas, which I equate to really oily cream puffs. It’s not the same. Though my father-in-law may disown me for saying so. (A dozen malasadas are required every time we see him. Which means toting the box from Hawaii to South Carolina, usually on multiple planes.)

No, donuts have to be purchased from Safeway or Foodland and I find something terribly wrong with that. They just aren’t great. No cake donuts, and usually stale. Yuck. Can’t a girl get a real breakfast?

So then Ulla comes barreling into my life with all her bulky glory, and I start to think: what can a good little Swedish girl like myself make with her new KitchenAid? Savory obviously wasn’t working for us. Sweet was the only logical thing to do. And strapping girls need their sugar. It’s a fact. Ask my grandmother. The logical side of my stomach made a very persuasive argument last Saturday morning that 4 years is entirely too long without the delights of cake donuts.

I found a recipe in one of my cookbooks that didn’t seem to hard. Throw in some flour, some salt, some sugar, some baking powder. Oh and cinnamon. There’s never enough cinnamon. Then mix together some butter, some milk, some more butter. Only the butter was supposed to be melted. And nobody tells you that your cold milk will make your melted butter harden up again. I guess they assume I’d figure it out. Aren’t they considerate not to hurt my feelings?

So Ulla got to it. She’s a pretty good whipper, even if she does spit flour at me. But she’s doing it, and I’m not, and that’s the important part.

The dough was super sticky, but oh boy was it heavenly. I took a few bites and then stuck it into the fridge for a couple hours to cool. Then came the fun part. The part that makes a donut a donut. The rolling and shaping and holing and dunking that tiny piece of dough into a golden bath of boiling lard. My lower intestines rumble just thinking about it.

It was my first time frying anything ever. Usually I’m the one that measures and counts and weighs the costs of using oil. It’s just a policy. A policy that keeps my girlish figure. A policy that mostly just keeps me out of the bathroom. But this time, just this once, I was willing to sacrifice myself for the health of my tongue.

I dropped in the first few donuts. Bust. Total failure. The oil was way to hot. Brown on the outside, gooey on the inside. But slowly, slowly, playing with the temperature, a taste here, a taste there, they started to take shape. Perfect shape. I found a rhythm.

Wow, did I find a rhythm.

But what is a donut without frosting? I found a quick recipe for a chocolate glaze using chocolate chips, butter, and water. Yes, water. I thought that was weird, too. So Ulla quickly whipped it up before the donuts could cool completely. I carefully picked up each little round of goodness and dipped it in the glaze.

And before I knew it, I had donuts. Real donuts. Nearly perfect, nearly round, completely fried donuts.

I was entirely proud of myself. This was way better than the pizza dough episode. Row after row of chocolaty, sugary lumps. And how did they taste?

“It’s like a super dense pancake. Too much cinnamon. And the frosting tastes like Hershey’s syrup. But they’re good. Good effort,” said my husband. So he only ate two out of the whole batch. The two I gave him to try that same day.

No matter. I just need to find a better recipe. With that said, my girlfriend and I ate the most of them that afternoon.  But don’t worry, we split them. Because 6 halves of a donut has less calories than 3 full donuts. It’s a fact. Ask my grandmother.