Up the porch steps we bounded, past the creaky swing and into the 60s/70s style tiled kitchen.
I held in my question through hellos and hugs until the words burst from my mouth, no longer able to be contained, "What are we having for breakfast?"
My mouth watered simply thinking of them. My taste buds readied at high alert, waiting, anxious, so very ready for the warm dough creation that only she knew how to make.
Thoughtfulness was kneaded into the fresh handmade dough. Companionship was leavened as the yeast performed its trick. Excitement and anticipation bubbled as the hot oil began to crackle.
As she scooped out the first strips of golden crispy perfection, my little body danced in the metal chair pushed up to the Formica tabletop. The plate of treasure was placed, steaming, before me and I paused. Waited. Grabbed for the largest piece only once the crown of glimmering sugar rested on the surface.
Hot, melt-in-your-mouth dough.
Sweet dusting of pure sugar.
That was what love tasted like.
I don't even know their real name. She always called them "Polish doughnuts", a nod to her heritage (and a little bit of mine).
I asked for them every single visit.
And she obliged.
Every single time.
