Buttermilk Doughnuts — The Ones We Ate at the Orchard and Never Talked About

Apple season. The Honeycrisps came in at the orchard outside Wrenshall and Erik drove me out on Saturday and we picked four bushels — two for Erik (who makes apple butter), two for me (who makes pies). The orchard in October is the most generous place on earth. The trees heavy. The air sharp. The cider doughnuts at the farm stand still warm. I ate three doughnuts. Erik ate four. Neither of us mentioned it. We are Johanssons. We do not discuss our doughnut intake. Back at the house I made pies all week. Six pies. Three for the freezer (Christmas insurance), two for Mamma (one for her, one for the church potluck on Sunday), one for me (eaten in slices, throughout the week, with sharp cheddar because that is the correct way to eat apple pie and anyone who disagrees is wrong). The crust is butter and lard, half and half. The lard makes it flaky. The butter makes it taste good. Mamma taught me this in 1973 and I have not deviated. I roll the crust on a marble slab Paul bought me for my fortieth birthday because he had noticed me struggling on a wooden board. He noticed everything. He bought the slab without telling me. It appeared one morning on the kitchen counter with a bow on it. I think about that slab every time I roll a crust. Twenty-three years now. The marble is cool. The dough is cooperative. The man who bought it is not here. The marble remains. The filling: Honeycrisp, peeled, sliced thin, tossed with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, a little flour, a squeeze of lemon. Heaped high in the crust because the apples will collapse. Topped with another crust, slits cut for steam, brushed with cream, sprinkled with sugar. Forty-five minutes at 425 then turn down to 375 for another twenty. The smell of an apple pie baking is the smell of the difference between a house and a home. I will die on this hill. Mamma's pie: delivered on Sunday after church. She inspected the crust. She said, "A little thick on the top." I said, "Mamma, your crust was always thicker than mine." She said, "That's not the point." Mother and daughter and pie. Forty-eight years of this conversation. I cherish it. The Damiano Center on Thursday: wild rice soup as usual, plus apple crisp for dessert (made with the orchard apples, with a thick oat topping, served warm). Gerald said, "Linda, you are spoiling us." I said, "You deserve apple crisp." Gerald said, "Nobody deserves anything." I said, "Then it's a gift." He laughed. The laugh of a man who has not been gifted things often. Friday I cleaned out the freezer to make room for the pies. I found a container of pureed pot roast from May 2019. From Paul. From when he could no longer chew. I had labeled it in my own handwriting: "Paul — pot roast — March 12." I sat on the kitchen floor for twenty minutes and I held the container and I cried. Then I thawed it. I added stock. I made it into stew. I ate it for dinner with bread and salad. The pot roast that I had pureed for him, that he had eaten the last bite of, in 2019, became my dinner in 2021. Nothing is wasted. Not the food. Not the love. Not the years. The pies are in the freezer. Christmas is coming. The man who bought the marble slab is not here. The marble is here. The apples are here. The dog is here. I am here. It is enough.

Erik ate four of those cider doughnuts at the farm stand. I ate three. We said nothing about it, which is the Johansson way. When I got home and the pies were cooling and the freezer was finally full and the week had settled into something quieter, I kept thinking about those doughnuts — warm out of the fryer, smelling of fall, requiring nothing from you except to eat them. These buttermilk doughnuts are not the orchard’s doughnuts, but they are close enough to sit beside a cup of coffee on a cold October morning and do the same work: simple, generous, no discussion required.

Buttermilk Doughnuts

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 40 min | Servings: 18 doughnuts

Ingredients

• 3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2 large eggs
• 3/4 cup buttermilk
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• Vegetable oil, for frying (about 4 cups)
• 1/2 cup powdered sugar or cinnamon sugar, for dusting

Instructions

1. Mix the dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, granulated sugar, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt until evenly combined.
2. Mix the wet ingredients. In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs, buttermilk, melted butter, and vanilla extract until smooth.
3. Combine. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir with a wooden spoon until a soft, slightly sticky dough comes together. Do not overmix. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and pat gently to about 1/2-inch thickness.
4. Cut the doughnuts. Use a 3-inch round cutter to cut out doughnuts, then use a 1-inch cutter (or the cap of a bottle) to cut the holes. Re-roll scraps once to cut additional doughnuts. Set cut doughnuts on a floured baking sheet.
5. Heat the oil. Pour oil into a heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven to a depth of about 2 inches. Heat over medium to 350°F. Use a thermometer — temperature matters here.
6. Fry in batches. Fry 3–4 doughnuts at a time, 1 to 1 1/2 minutes per side, until deep golden brown. Do not crowd the pot. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on a wire rack set over a baking sheet.
7. Fry the holes. Drop the doughnut holes into the oil and fry 45–60 seconds, turning once, until golden all over. Drain on the rack.
8. Dust and serve. While still warm, dust doughnuts generously with powdered sugar or cinnamon sugar. Eat immediately. Do not discuss how many you have eaten.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 210 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 8g | Carbs: 32g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 160mg