It was on one of those bright Sunday afternoons when the whole house felt very much lighter than air. Daddy had gone out on another of his missionary trips, and you know what that meant? Total freedom. Don’t get me wrong, we love Daddy, but his presence was like a big stick always hovering over our heads. Discipline here, correction there. But with Mummy, it felt different. She scolded, oh yes! Sometimes, she even gave us the beating of our lives; but somehow, we still preferred her around. She was like a breath of fresh air.
Anyway, let me not go off track. Let’s get back to the story.
The day before, being Saturday, I had stumbled on this YouTube video about how to make doughnuts. The lady in the video looked so calm, while smiling as if the dough was obeying her like a well-trained puppy. In the end, she lifted the golden brown circles, sprinkled them with sugar and of course, took a bite that made me nearly drool on my phone.
I told myself, “Abeg, how hard can this be?”
So I did my quick allowance check and yes, I had enough. Daddy had made sure to fill our pockets so we don’t disturb him over the phone. I checked that the money I had was really enough, at least, enough to make a whole basketful and enough to impress Daddy when he returned. The thought of him nodding in approval already filled my head.
Fast forward to Sunday morning, I went to church and believe me, I was almost caught voicing out my thoughts about my secret plan. When I was leading the choir, I was this close to singing “Doughnut is Good” instead of “God is good” Thank heavens I caught myself in time.
As soon as we got home, I dashed straight to the baking store nearby and returned with a nylon bag of flour, sugar, yeast, and eggs. Of course, Mummy noticed.
“Were you given anything in church?” she asked, fixing her suspicious eyes on me.
I froze, and before I could lie, she just shook her head knowingly and said, “Don’t burn down my kitchen, young lady!”
Don’t blame her. Which sane mother wouldn’t be terrified of a 13-year-old about to experiment with hot oil?
Now, the real struggle began. Mixing the dough looked so easy on YouTube, but in real life? Ha! It was a fatal war. The flour stuck to my hands and the dough refused to form. I kept kneading and muttering, “What in the name of hard work is this?” Sweat trickled down my forehead, but I pushed on at the thought of my intending success.
My siblings stood by the kitchen door, giggling.
“Chef Dinma!” one of them mocked. “Please don’t forget to save us some charcoal doughnuts when you are done.” I hissed and continued.
After finally forcing the dough into submission, I spread it out to roll. It was in that moment; I knew I had messed up.
On the video, the dough had rolled out like soft silk. Mine was so stubborn, tearing and sticking everywhere. In frustration, I grabbed a small cup and began cutting random circles. The sight wasn’t encouraging at all. While some looked like flattened slippers, others looked like bottle covers.
“See shape na!” my brother laughed. “Are we eating doughnuts or coke bottle covers?”
I ignored them and rushed to the stove. My oil was already heating. Well, not just heating but smoking hot. Mummy’s voice rang from the living room, “Bring the oil down before you burn this house!”
But it was too late. I had already flung in my ugly looking circles.
Pssshhhhhh! The oil hissed angrily with bubbles rising like a volcano. My heart jumped to my throat instantly. And in the twinkle of an eye, the dough turned brown, faster than my mind could keep up. In panic, I flipped them over, hoping to save them. Guess what? One side was overqualified but the other side had not even applied for the job
My siblings burst into uncontrollable laughter. “Congratulations! You have invented pappy doughnuts!”
I wanted the floor to open and swallow me. But the stubborn side of me, didn’t want to believe I had spoiled everything. And so, I tried a second batch, then a third. But the story was the same. Burnt here, raw there. Flour could not save them at all.
Finally, Mummy entered, shaking her head. “Shift joor,” she said. Within minutes, her hands moved with the ease and speed of experience. The same ingredients I had struggled with obeyed her like soldiers on parade. The kitchen was instantly filled with the sweet smell of real doughnuts, looking golden, soft and puffed up. Exactly how I had dreamed.
She handed me one, warm and dusted with sugar. “Cooking is not just steps you watch in a video,” she said, smiling. “It’s patience, practice and timing, aunty. Don’t rush it.”
By evening, Daddy came back home. He saw the two plates on the table: my doughnuts looking like burnt offerings and Mummy’s golden treasures.
“Who made these?” he asked, pointing at the burnt ones.
My brothers shouted in chorus, “Your daughter!”
I braced myself, but to my surprise, Daddy picked one up, bit into it, and chewed thoughtfully. “Hmmm..not bad,” he said with a straight face. Then he looked at me with a knowing smile. “It’s not as easy as it looked, abi?”
We all burst out laughing.
And just like that, the lesson that sank very deep was the one that said: “I can do it” is one thing, but actually doing it is where the whole truth lies.
