Powdered Sugar, Daily Dozen Doughnut Company - Seattle, Washington

When people hear that I love donuts, they are quick to tell me their favorites.
 
Amongst the Krispy Kremes and the mom & pop donut shops of one’s small towns, the other response I get is often hyper specific. They are typically steeped in mythology: a mysterious pop-up store that existed for thirty years before being shut down by the health department, or when the owner’s children did not feel like carrying on the family business. My friend & poet Patti White has oft mentioned the “cake donuts at the Boone County fair, made by the ladies from the Volunteer Fire Dept, deep fried with a bit of sugar sprinkled on, the night hot and humid, neon lights everywhere.” This reminds me of one of my first ever transcendent donut experiences, which was the Three Bridges Firemen’s Fair, which transformed the fields behind my elementary school into an absolute wonderland to my first-grade self. I have a distinct memory of my Avi using a mallet to launch a rubber frog onto a rotating lily pad to win me a stuffed frog; a task that seemed absolutely impossible. Avi, a petroleum engineer, deemed it easy—it was a matter of simple physics. The other lasting image was that of the freshly-fried mini-donuts, rolled in powdered sugar and served in a newspaper cone. Baking was not something that has ever been a part of my life—my mother finds no joy in cooking and even less in baking—so the opportunity to have a freshly baked good was something that I reveled in. I never had anything like it before—it was the best thing I had ever had in my young life. There is a magic in fried dough—while I am not a Krispy Kreme acolyte, a fresh Hot Now classic is an experience unto itself; a truly elevated experience.
 
This chasing has caused me to follow the natural progression of my donut obsession—to attempt to make my own donuts at home. I am not a natural chef, though it is something that I enjoy doing from time to time. When I was in high school, I took Home Economics, and I absolutely loved it—I loved using a KitchenAid mixer to blend ingredients together. I really enjoyed starting a class period with a few measured ingredients and having a finished product at the end: a batch of chocolate chip cookies, or a double-layer carrot cake. However, for most of my life, I never cooked anything unless it was for special occasions: I was very much someone who would rather go through the Wendy’s Drive-Thru than ever pre-heat an oven—the most cooking I would do would be throwing a few pre-made sausages on a propane grill; buying pre-cut peppers and onions, dousing them in olive oil, salt, and pepper, making an aluminum foil boat and putting them on the top rack of the grill to slowly roast. Cooking, to me, had to be associated with decadence for it to make sense—once a year, I would use my Oma’s handwritten recipe and stumble my way through a paella, either getting the rice right and the shrimp overcooked, or delivering on the seafood aspect while chipping my teeth on barely fluffed Bomba rice.
 
While my relationship to cooking has changed for the better (thanks Tasha!), I still felt this pull during my donut attempts. My first batch was done with the Bella Cucina Donut Maker, a device that is pretty much a waffle maker, except for donuts. You pre-heat the device, pour the batter into the little donut rings, close the lid, wait about forty seconds, and pry the donuts from the mold before they overbake, trying not to Michael Scott yourself in the process. I scoured the internet for about a week in order to find the best donut recipe for this type of device, settling on a xurro-esque flavor profile, as my Catalan cooking habits, apparently, die hard. The finished results (tossed in a paper bag and shaken with cinnamon and sugar) weren’t bad, but it absolutely was not a donut. Instead, it was more of a donut-shaped muffin—something that one could ascertain from a baking/griddle process rather than by deep frying. I was wholeheartedly disappointed and vowed to do it properly the following weekend.

 
After another week of research, I felt much more prepared for my culinary adventures. I followed extraordinarily long reddit threads about proper temperature and consistency. I consulted a retired pastry chef on what the best technique for deep frying is. I purchased a “donut hopper,” which is a small cup like vessel with a plunger at the top that when pressed, opens up a small cylinder in the bottom of the cup, allowing the batter to flow out in an idealized donut-shaped ring. I knew that two-and-a-half inches of oil is ideal. I bought a candy thermometer. I bought a cooling rack. When using a donut hopper, the proper batter consistency is key: too much liquid will cause the rings to break apart, causing a wide, flat donut that soaks up way too much of the oil. A thicker batter is better, but if it is too thick, the batter will not flow properly through the hopper, causing a massive backup and making the amateur pastry chef pour more lukewarm water in hopes of thinning it out.
 
The final result were unmistakably donuts. They tasted good—a nice balance of nutmeg and cinnamon. They were also so sogged down with grease that after eating my second one, it was as if I had swallowed an entire tablespoon of oil and I had to refrain from eating anything else the rest of the day. I had multiple small flaws in my process: the batter being too thin, making for a thin and flat donut, was one of them. The most egregious was the oil dropping too much in temperature from batch to batch, therefore making the donuts take longer to cook all the way through, which made the dough sit in the oil for way too long. “Simple physics,” Avi would say.

 
I went back to the drawing board—this time, I studied the masters; I watched YouTube videos of bakers who walk their viewers throughout the entire prepping and frying process. I read an extensive PDF from a commercial donut maker guidebook that had been illegally leaked by an ex-employee, which highlighted the sensitivity of the temperature of the ingredients in the donut making. But mostly I watched the YouTube video of a woman with the handle “imstillworkin,” who kept saying “Time to make the donuts,” in a thick Southern drawl in her dimly lit kitchen. From her multiple videos, I learned her name was Susan, she lived in Virginia, was a grandmother, and preached “self-reliance,” and “homesteading,” which I quickly ascertained to mean “start your own garden, learn how to can and preserve foods, because the apocalypse is coming, y’all.” Over the week, I learned to trust Susan with my life: I found something endearing in the event of end-times, she would still find time to fire up her deep fryer, roll out some dough, and craft something that didn’t need to be rehydrated.
 
Susan’s recipe called for an immense amount of prep work, as instead of making a donut batter, we were to make a true dough—mixing and rolling the night before in order to let the dough rest properly. I purchased my first rolling pin. I bought a deep frying strainer basket. I could not find a donut or biscuit cutter, so I used a pint glass and a shot glass respectively to make the ring shapes. The recipe was overly sticky, to the point where it couldn’t even be rolled out without a copious amount of flour, so I continued to add more and more flour (all thanks to the YouTube commenters—this may have been the first time that I ascertained that perhaps Susan was not infallible). I made sure the oil was at the proper temperature, taking into account the temperature drop. They rose well in the oil—I flipped them with a chopstick, plucking them out of the dutch oven at the right time with the strainer, giving them a quick shake to remove some excess oil, before putting them on a layer of paper towels. I rolled them in powdered sugar. I even melted some chocolate chips with some half-and-half to make a ganache type frosting. I had done it.

 
And guess what? They were okay. Just okay. They certainly weren’t light—even a quality cake donut has a certain airiness to it, but these were very dense. I kept trying to make donuts, but despite my best effort, I kept making ringed muffins. After they had cooled, they became even more chewy. They were, in my opinion, the best ones I had made thus far, but they did not come close to a simply “okay” donut from a middle of the road donut shop. I had dreams of somehow crafting the ideal donut; that I would utilize these recipes and all I know about the form as a building block to jump off from—that I would easily be able to make a humble and simple donut before branching out into more exquisite endeavors; perhaps a maple glaze, or a subtle fruit flavor.
 
The truth is, I simply ignored every sign that told me that this was a fool’s errand. The majority of comments about making donuts were two-fold: for some, the recipe went over really well because they were from baking experts but donut amateurs—stating that the recipes were “fun to make with the grandkids.” Others were more my speed; subpar in the kitchen but self-proclaimed donut aficionados, whose message shook down to this: don’t even bother.
 
The reasoning behind not even bothering was apparent: donuts, simply, are not meant to be homemade. They are a commercial pastry through and through—not many other baked goods are sold by the dozen or half dozen. Unlike cookies, they can’t be baked in multiple batches at a time and forgotten; they need constant attention. But the genius of donuts is that they have the appearance of homemade-ness: they are individually crafted, often finished with an assortment of toppings and jellies. There are multiple varieties. They are found in unassuming small shops that remind us of simpler times. But there is a reason that there are bakeries that specialize in donuts and donuts only—donuts are hard to make and require a ton of specific equipment, and so a lot of bakeries don’t bother. It is rare to find a bakery that has an assortment of pastries as well as a solid donut. Due to my love of donuts, maybe people assume that I will always go for a donut when at a bakery—the truth of the matter is, I am a fan of baked goods of any type, and will always go for the item that is considered the specialty: it’s the same reason why you don’t order the salad at the fried chicken place.
 
And so, despite all of the lessons bestowed upon me by Susan and the depths of the internet, the secret to a truly great donut is automation. Even the pastry chef whose recipe I followed for my second batch of donuts admitted that the recipe had been reduced over 500%, as it was more typical for commercial use. There’s a reason why your local Krispy Kreme is officially called the Krispy Kreme Doughnut Doughnut Factory.
 
In my quest for finding a perfect donut recipe, I came across a YouTube video of the defunct Moody’s Donuts in Portland, Oregon, where a local asked the owner if he could film his donut being made. While I did not find any secret ingredient batter tips, I was treated to the assembly-line like process: an donut hopper placed the batter into what is called a donut machine; in this case, it appeared to be a Lil’ Orbits SS120: the donut would drop and slowly move along a chute of oil or shortening, complete with a little claw hand that would flip the donut over when it was properly browned. It would then eventually be lifted up by a separate claw to drain it from the oil, before dropping it onto a wire rack below, where it would be picked up by the operator and tossed in cinnamon sugar.
 
Chances are if you go to a festival or carnival where hot donuts are being served, it is from a Lil’ Orbits machine. The Minnesota-based company doesn’t exactly sell the machines; instead, they sell the idea of profiting off of donuts. Their website is more about creating business opportunities and potential clients rather than selling their hardware:
 
“Why invest in Lil’ Orbits? Two answers: Profitability, combined with a healthy return on investment, and fun - for your customers - and for you. Businesses can be profitable, but they can also be dull and dreary. Lil' Orbits operations are profitable and are a joy to run. Nearly everyone loves mini-donuts. Adults remember enjoying them when they were kids attending fairs, festivals, carnivals, ball games, events... and then buy them for their own kids (and themselves). Or, they buy a bag of mini-donuts and don't share them with anybody.”

 
We’ve all heard the adage of “don’t ask how the sausage gets made,”—but that is something that we should know better about; I simply wanted to know the secrets to what makes a good donut, and instead I revealed that there’s a possibility that all donuts are rooted in mass consumption; that to create a donut involves a massive corporate structure that only has the illusion of down-homeness. Perhaps this means I should have more empathy for a $6.00 “artisanal” donut that is definitely more of the small-batch variety, but tastes like someone accidentally dropped a piece of pound cake into a pot of earl gray tea and allspice. All this time the gentrified donut with the rosemary sprig is leading the true rebellion while the simple cinnamon sugar is actually the product of unchecked capitalism!
 
Instead, for me, it is a case of learning to stop worrying and love the machine. In this case, it is not the Lil’ Orbits and its marketing plan, and its disgruntled leasers (the reviews of both the machines and the donut flour are not great—to Moody’s credit, they absolutely made their own batter). Instead, I am in awe of the gold standard in donut making: the Belshaw Adamatic Donut Robot—the Bentley of donut machines. The Mark V retails for over $20,000—when you go to a Krispy Kreme Doughnut Doughnut Factory, you are witnessing a customized Mark V in action. It’s a glorious operation—completely mesmerizing and amazingly efficient. There are Belshaws on battleships.
 
There’s also a Belshaw at the heart of one of my favorite donuts: the cinnamon sugar mini-donut at the Daily Dozen in Seattle, Washington. Located in the Pike Place market, the stand has been there for almost 25 years, its Mark II (complete with spinning cooling plate, sold separately) cranks out 153 dozen mini-donuts an hour. They are then picked up by tongs, rolled in cinnamon sugar, and thrown into a brown paper bag with a hearty thwack. The donut itself is soft on the inside and crunchy on the outside, with just the right amount of nutmeg to balance out the dough. They are meant to be eaten hot—it is, after all, in a market, and so it is assumed that you eat them while moving through the rest of the vendors, stopping to watch a sockeye flung head-first through the air at the fish market.

 
And maybe this is where we find the bridge between these worlds: there is something strangely genuine about using a machine like a Belshaw, which is meant to last decades, to create something like a donut, which is incredibly temporal; anyone who is anyone knows that there are few donuts that last longer than twenty-four hours without being reduced to dry toughness. Donuts are fleeting, so why spend any extra time on them in your own kitchen, when we have machines to make this whole process that much easier and still create a sense of wonder and awe: whether it’s watching the Mark II go through its motions while people try to find the original Starbucks amongst the market, or a child in a paper hat mesmerized by the giant machine cranking out Hot Nows behind the plexiglass.
 
On the mornings where I failed in front of my cast iron pot, I found myself missing my routine of going to my Saturday morning donut places. While one associates routine with automation, I find humanity in it—saying hello to my favorite workers, or running into my friend Austin’s son Owen, who calls me his “donut friend”. There’s an odd sort of freedom in it—the same way the operator of the Mark II at Daily Dozen chats up out of towners, asking them how their trips have been.
 
I always say that when I hit the lottery, I’m opening up my own donut stand. My first purchase will be a Belshaw Donut Robot—probably a Mark II. I’ll run batch after batch after batch until I get the batter just right, or, at the very least, something that will bring me back to Pike Place, over 2500 miles away, enjoying a donut with my friend Julia who I get to see once every few years. Or maybe, if I’m lucky, the machine will manipulate space and time—simple physics, of course: and bring me back to the paper tickets and the Wave Swinger and the powdered sugar spotting my t-shirt with white. And I’ll think of my grandfather and that giant stuffed frog. The apparatus was simple: rubber frog, spring, mallet. But someone had to transfer the energy through the mechanism that sent the frog through the air, landing on the floating lily pad with a hearty thwack. Someone needed to be there. Someone had to place the prize in my outstretched arms in an act of humanity and love.