Apple Doughnut Bombs

Dia de los Muertos at Rivera's. Year three. The ofrenda grows — more photographs, more candles, more marigolds, more memory. Captain Diaz. Maria's father. Alejandro's grandmother. Thompson. Mrs. Gutierrez's husband (she brought his photograph last year and it has stayed on the ofrenda since, permanent now, part of the restaurant's family of the honored dead). A new addition this year: my Tía Carmen, Roberto's older sister, who died in June at seventy-two of a stroke in her home in Tucson. She was the first person to teach Roberto how to make tortillas. She was the reason Roberto knew that food was love before he ever lit a grill. Her photograph — a young woman, smiling, flour on her apron — sits on the ofrenda next to the candles and the pan de muerto.

I made mole. Year four alone. The mole is mine and it is right and Elena does not taste it anymore because Elena trusts me to make it correctly. The trust is the final gift. The mother trusts the son to carry the recipe. The recipe is carried. The mole is on the ofrenda for the dead and on the menu for the living and in both places it is the same: love, translated into chiles and chocolate and the cinnamon that is finally, irrevocably right.

The ofrenda has become a community gathering point. Customers bring photographs. They bring candles. They bring memories. The corner of the dining room where the altar stands has become a sacred space in a restaurant that serves brisket, which is a combination that should not work but which works because Rivera's has always been a church disguised as a kitchen. The food is the sacrament. The ofrenda is the altar. The community table is the pew. The fire is the prayer.

Sofia made pan de muerto with me this year — the bread of the dead, the orange-scented rolls. She did not ask why we cook for people who cannot eat. She knows now. She understood at nine, when she asked the question, and at eleven she has internalized the answer: we cook for the dead because the aroma carries. We cook for the dead because love does not stop at the grave. We cook for the dead because the fire has no boundary between the living and the gone.

Diego placed a photograph on the ofrenda: a picture of a goldfish named Spike who died in August after three months of enthusiastic but brief existence. Elena said, "Mijo, the ofrenda is for people." Diego said, "Spike was people to me." Roberto, from his seat, said, "The boy is right. Put the fish on the altar." Spike the goldfish is on the Rivera's ofrenda. The dead — all the dead, two-legged and finned — are honored.

Sofia and I made these the same afternoon we made the pan de muerto—she was already flour-dusted and willing, and I wanted to give her something she could shape with her hands, something warm and immediate that didn’t require years of mole instinct to get right. The cinnamon in these is the same cinnamon that is finally right in the mole, and when you roll them in sugar while they’re still hot, the smell that rises is the smell of that kitchen, that afternoon, Tía Carmen’s photograph watching from across the room.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 40 min | Servings: 12

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp fine salt
2 tbsp granulated sugar
3/4 cup whole milk
1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled
1 egg, beaten
1 large apple (such as Honeycrisp or Fuji), peeled and finely diced
2 tbsp brown sugar, packed
1 tsp ground cinnamon, plus more for coating
1/4 tsp ground nutmeg
Vegetable oil, for frying (about 3 cups)
1/2 cup granulated sugar mixed with 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon, for rolling

Instructions

Make the apple filling. In a small bowl, toss the finely diced apple with the brown sugar, 1 tsp cinnamon, and nutmeg. Let sit for 10 minutes so the apple softens slightly and the sugar dissolves into a light syrup.
Mix the dough. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, salt, and granulated sugar. Add the melted butter, milk, and beaten egg. Stir until a soft, slightly sticky dough comes together—do not overmix.
Heat the oil. Pour vegetable oil into a deep, heavy-bottomed pot to a depth of about 2 inches. Heat over medium to 350°F. Use a thermometer if you have one; the oil is ready when a small piece of dough sizzles immediately on contact.
Form the bombs. Flour your hands lightly. Pinch off a walnut-sized piece of dough, flatten it in your palm, place a small spoonful (about 1 tsp) of the apple filling in the center, then fold the dough up around the filling and roll gently into a ball, sealing the seam well. Repeat with remaining dough and filling.
Fry in batches. Carefully lower 4 to 5 doughnut bombs into the hot oil. Fry for 3 to 4 minutes, turning once or twice, until deep golden brown on all sides. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain briefly on a paper towel.
Roll in cinnamon sugar. While still hot, roll each bomb in the cinnamon sugar mixture until fully coated. Set on a wire rack or plate. Repeat with remaining dough balls.
Serve warm. These are best eaten within the hour, when the cinnamon sugar crust is just set and the apple filling is still soft inside. They reheat well in a 300°F oven for 5 minutes if needed.

Nutrition (per serving)

Apple Doughnut Bombs — The Sweet Bread We Made for the Living and the Gone