Toasted, Buttered Donuts

There’s a tradition at our family cottage in Maine that no one ever forgets and everyone is always ready for. It usually happens on those rare cool summer mornings, when even though it may reach over eighty degrees by noon, the mornings keep us wrapped in blankets or with hoodies pulled over sleep-tousled heads. As I possess the most parenting roles (Mom and Gramma) the responsibility falls to me to perpetuate the tradition; gather the supplies, prepare the space, initiate the activity. On those chilly summer mornings no matter who is there or how old they are, I make toasted buttered doughnuts. It’s a modest tradition, really, but oh, so important to our family.

The recipe began with my mom and it’s really quite simple: You get a box of those mini powdered doughnuts that are available everywhere. In the beginning, my Mom sliced them in half, arranged them sliced-side up on a sheet of aluminum foil, placed a tab of butter on each half, sprinkled more powdered sugar over the whole lot and toasted them under the broiler until the edges of the doughnuts crisped to just the tiniest dark brown and drops of butter pooled in the crannies of the tiny pastries. That’s it. “Well, that’s so easy,” you say, “and just a little bit unhealthy” you might add. And you’d be right. That’s why I have modified the recipe in the interest of health: I don’t sprinkle extra powdered sugar on them anymore.

Mom would fix those doughnuts for us kids on weekends or birthdays. We certainly didn’t have them every morning…just special ones. She brought the tradition to Maine when my parents bought the weathered old fishing camp on Sebago Lake almost 40 years ago and turned it into our family retreat. My brother, sister and I weren’t kids anymore when they bought it, but we had a few among us and toasted buttered doughnuts in the morning became a summer tradition. (It’s also not unheard of to revive it on cold winter mornings, too.) Still not every summer morning, but we didn’t have to wait for a birthday (of which there were none during the summer anyway) and we didn’t have to wait for a weekend. It could be a Tuesday and mom would pull out the box of those doughnuts, tear off a sheet of foil, and mouths would start watering.

There really isn’t any accurate way to describe the experience of these doughnuts. It’s not just a doughnut, it’s not sort of toast, it’s not even French toast or some other buttery treat. The chemistry of butter, powdered sugar, mini doughnut, and heat creates a flavor in your mouth that isn’t like anything else. And maybe it’s not chemistry at all, but some magic that occurs when something is done year after year, handed down by mom after mom, and is inspired by long days swimming in a clear blue lake in the fresh air of the Pine Tree State. This magic involves all the senses. You hear the cardboard box being ripped open and the foil sheet torn off the roll. The fridge opens and the butter dish is brought out. There’s a little crinkly sound as the doughnuts hit the foil and a creak as the oven door opens. Inside, the butter starts melting first, catalyzing the flour of the doughnut into an aroma that you can smell floating through the oven door that’s cracked open just a bit. The butter bubbles and invites the powdered sugar into its dance and they take over the whole surface of the doughnut, bubbling out to the edges. The powdered half, beneath this bubbling wonderfulness, starts to melt a little, but not enough to disappear completely and patches of melty sugar cling to the rest of the little baked good. I use a slim icing spatula to release the goodies from the foil and scrape up any leftover powdered sugar, and then smear it on top of the doughnuts. Sometimes, the doughnuts are transferred to a plate, but they don’t last very long, so they’re often served on the foil sheet they’re broiled on. Everyone gets in on this tradition; the dieters, the no-sweets guy, the diabetic. The first taste insures that you’ll grab another one, and fortunately, there’s always another one.

I’ve made a few other modifications over the years as I’ve taken up the tradition. For example, I turn up the edges of the sheet of foil to make a sort of tray. I don’t need any sugar or butter lost to accidental spills. And I guess that’s really it…why mess with a sure thing? At times we’ve experimented with adjustments to the original recipe, but it never works. We tried plain doughnuts (what were we thinking?) and regular size doughnuts (nope, way too big) but they just didn’t taste the same. I’ve toyed with other toppings, too: crumbled bacon, granulated raw sugar (my family has a bit of a sweet tooth) but the simplicity of the ingredients and the magic of the method aren’t to be messed with. The recipe—and tradition—stands to this day.

Recently I visited my twin grandchildren in Arizona. We hadn’t seen them since they were babies—and since there were no plans for them to come to Maine in the near future—I felt it was my duty to introduce them to the family tradition while I was there. I teased them a little the night before: I told them I was going to make a wonderful treat for them in the morning that they were going to LOVE! Once I said that, though, I got a little nervous…would it work just as well in Arizona? In the middle of a desert? With children who hadn’t even been swimming in the lake yet?

It did. Both children were up at the crack of dawn to find out what special treat Gramma had in store for them. I took out all the ingredients one by one and set them on the counter. I pulled out a sheet of foil and carefully folded the edges to make a tray. Then, I gently liberated a powdery little doughnut from its place in the pile and sliced it carefully in half. I did this to about a half a dozen of them and arranged them—just like Madeline—in two straight lines. The twins watched in wonder.

After carefully broiling the doughnuts, I brought them on a plate to the kitchen table, where the twins waited. I waited, too, a little nervous about this inaugural noshing. They each took one and thoroughly inspected it and then—the first bite. I couldn’t tell…did they like it? Did they just eat it out of politeness? “Well?” I asked. They LOVED them! Each of them asked for more…and more again. I checked with my daughter—their mom—but she knew. Of course they could have more. How could they not? They were eating toasted buttered doughnuts—they’re a family tradition and the magic is love.