Teeth-Crushing Donuts and the Art of Running Away

Grass Padrique | The Fabulous Scientist

Note: I wrote this story years ago on my old Blogger. My siblings talked about my mom’s infamous donuts earlier today and decided to repost my old blog post about her donuts here.

When I was a kid, my mom and dad constantly bickered over burnt dishes, undercooked rice, or desserts that tasted like sweetened cardboard. My dad—who used to be an all-around chef in one of the biggest hotels in Manila in the 1980s—had opinions. Strong ones. And he exercised those opinions the moment he got home to a lousily prepared dinner.

Mom was never great in the kitchen, but we loved her nonetheless. My siblings and I also mastered the art of selective honesty. We praised her homemade ice cream, applauded pastries baked in a manual oven, and politely ignored the fact that most of her dishes were made from not-so-fresh vegetables and questionable cuts of meat. (Oh, and yes—she wasn’t great at grocery shopping either. LOL.)

But the worst thing she ever made—the undisputed champion of culinary crimes—was what we now fondly refer to as The Teeth-Crushing Donuts. The title really says it all.

It was summer, school was out, and we spent our days playing, napping, or watching TV until our brains melted. For reasons still unknown to this day, Mom suddenly decided to make donuts—and sell them to the neighbors.

We were thrilled.

She sent us to the store to buy:

1. Flour
2. Margarine
3. Eggs
4. Sugar
5. Cooking oil
6. Milk

Back home, she prepared the dough and flattened it using a clean, empty whiskey bottle (or maybe it was a Coca-Cola bottle—we were flexible). Using drinking glasses and teacups, she cut the dough into donut shapes. After heating oil in our big Chinese frying pan, she dropped them in one by one.

We watched in awe as the dough puffed up and turned from lemon yellow to golden brown. The donuts looked amazing. They smelled divine. In my mind, I was already biting into a warm, fluffy donut while other kids watched us in envy. I imagined neighbors buying dozens, begging Mom to make more. Not only would we have the best merienda—we’d be rich.

Then reality arrived.

“Oh my, kid… these donuts look ugly. Are you sure they’re donuts??”

That unforgettable comment came from a neighbor. My brother Yany was in charge of sales.

“No, Tita, these donuts are good. I’ve tried them myself,” he said confidently.
(This was his first attempt at marketing and his nth attempt at lying. He’s an accountant now. Go figure.)

“Okay then, I’ll buy ten pieces.”

She paid, took a bite, and Yany immediately began backing away.

After a few seconds:

“HEY! These donuts are ROCK HARD! HEY—STOP! I WANT MY MONEY BACK!”

But my brother wasn’t just a marketer.

He was also a runner.

Mom had forgotten to put yeast.

And that, my friends, is how we invented edible masonry.