When Jenna and her classmate left the
car this morning, they were talking about doughnuts – more specifically
doughnut holes.
I took Highness for a walk and smiled
as I thought at a memory about disappearing doughnuts.
My brother Corey and I are nine years
apart. We seem to share a lot in common –
particularly food habits. Eating
whatever is quick or handy. Our kitchen
skills were not the greatest. Plus we both appeared to be on the lazy side.
We also have a brother Patrick – who is
two years younger than I and our baby sister, Kayla, who is thirteen years
younger. They are both survivor’s. And both were quite comfortable in the
kitchen from an early age.
When we were younger, we used to taunt
Corey by saying that Kayla could be out in the dessert and live off the land;
she would never go hungry. Corey, on the
other hand, could have starved to death less than three feet from a fully
stocked refrigerator.
Afterall she was four and he was eight
when he ran down the hall to our mom’s bedroom.
“Mama! Mama! Kayla is making toast!”
“So.”
“But I’m older than her. And even I don’t know how to make toast.”
I don’t recall how old Corey was when our
family received one of those novelty doughnut makers. It was actually quite a cool product
according to the late ‘70’s standards.
Patrick had made dozens of doughnuts (note: only two doughnuts can be
cooked at a time) and Corey decided that it was going to be his turn.
He had asked my mom if he could make
doughnuts. She said “no” – but he
pressed her. I don’t know if she finally
gave in or if he just chose to disobey.
But the girl from across the street had come over and he decided that
they would make doughnuts together.
He obviously did not follow a recipe as he
used at least one cup of baking soda.
The doughnut batter had already been poured into the doughnut maker when
Patrick and his friends (also from across the street) and I watched as he tried
to impress Becky with what would be the first doughnuts he had fully made by
himself.
The look on his face was priceless as he
opened up the container and the batter he had worked so hard on had disappeared
– except for a tiny bit of residue in the bottom. Becky lovingly scooped up what was left and
held it to her mouth and tasted it.
“This is really good,” she said in a
pathetic attempt to make Corey feel better.
The look on mom’s face was quite
hostile. She had specifically told Corey
NO and there was really no way we could salvage the rest of the batter (did I
mention he had doubled the recipe?) and
we all sensed that Corey was going to get a beating so severe that we might all
feel the pain from it.
But then Becky’s brother laughed about his
own memories and said, “It’s alright Corey.
We all make mistakes” and then proceeded to spit out every bad thing we
had ever done – burning experimental dinners, hiding food (I specifically remember
half a roast and a turkey) in his room and then forgetting about it (but an unpleasant
odor would reveal what he had done and he would get into trouble for it),
lighting the grass on fire . . . the list went on and on.
It was quite a few years later when my mom
said Becky’s brother probably saved Corey’s life that day. You’d think after all those horrifying
memories she would have wanted to strangle us all – except she was laughing
with us. Except for the grass fire. That had been way to close to the house.
I think Corey and I have both gotten
better in the kitchen. Still not our
favorite haunt. But we won’t die of
starvation. I don’t recall what happened
to the doughnut maker.
