The odor of hot grease spreads
through the house
like pine scent in December.
I am as excited as I was Christmas morning
as I watch Mother shape the mixture
of mashed potatoes, sugar and flour,
form it into little balls, plop them
gently into the pot where oil
bubbles and sputters.

Mother pulls them out with a slotted spoon,
drains them on an old terrycloth towel.
Happily I lift the steamy brown balls
with a serving spoon, drop them into a bowl
of sugar, turn them till they sparkle.
Even now, decades later, each bubble
in a pot of simmering oil is Mother's chuckle.
As I imagine her here again, every doughnut hole
becomes a smiley face.


© by Wilda Morris.
Used with the author's permission