This doesn't have anything to do with donuts. Or it didn't, until I saw something mentioning a donut and now it is all I can think of. Not store bought donuts though, but the kind you make at home. Crispy, fried, hot, pieces of bread dough boiled alive in oil and drizzled with syrup. Dough dogs, dough boys, or whatever you call them. Yummy goodness.
When we were little, one of my favourite things about visiting my Grandma was that she would make dough dogs. It was her specialty. I have discovered over the years that each family has their own version of dough dogs called by many names. Grandma would make them for us when we came to visit.
Grandma would have the dough ready as if by magic (which is to say, while we weren't paying attention) and she would boil a pot of oil on the stove to bake them in. My mom wouldn't make them for us. She was terrified of boiling oil. I can understand this. My brother and I once dumped a pot of boiling oil on the floor in the kitchen and destroyed her linoleum, but that is another story.
When she was finished, we would sit at the table with a plate in front of us. Each dog would be lathered with attention. Sometimes with butter, sometimes with honey, sometimes with jam, sometimes rolled in sugar. We would eat as many as we could until the plate was taken away. I can taste them if I close my eyes.
Someday, when I have kids and grandkids, I plan to stand in the kitchen and make them up a plate of dough dogs so they too can have the memories of things boiled in oil. Mmmm.
The moral of this story is: It sucks to be working nights while trying to eat healthy and totally PMSing.