I love eating and making donuts. This past week, I tried out a new donut recipe. I made a yeast dough, stamped out the rings with a cutter, fried them in hot oil...
They look nice, don't they?
But they didn't taste nice!
The donuts did not crisp on the outside, and they were oddly flavorless on the inside. After stinking up my apartment with the frying, I was disappointed. I sighed and wrapped up the remaining donut dough and tossed it in the fridge, not really having the heart to throw it away.
The next day, I decided I really wanted sausage. But I wanted to experiment and actually make something, not just fry prepared sausages in a pan. So I grabbed a pack of ground pork, tossed it in my cart. I went home and mixed the pork with spices, sugar, salt, garlic powder...
Between the kale salad and the pork, it was not a bad dinner, but maybe some disappointment lingered in the oily kitchen. Because the sausage wasn't what I wanted. I put the remaining pork in the fridge, next to the abandoned dough.
The following day I got home from work and was too tired to write or visit the grocery store. In an odd moment of food inspiration — as if possessed — I grabbed the pork and the donut dough.
I remembered making Chinese steamed buns with a yeast dough... The yeast dough was done. A pork filling was done.
I rolled out the dough and cut it into pieces. Then I made balls from the seasoned, raw pork and tucked them in the dough, pulling the dough around the meatball and twisted the dough closed at the top.
Heated up the steamer. Plopped in the little packages for thirty minutes.
I got something like this:
They were amazing.
Writing a first draft is like this sometimes.
You set out to do one thing (or multiple somethings) and accidentally achieve something even better.
This is Donutism. 🍩