I have to start this post with a resounding "Thank you!!" to my friend Mami, who, mere days after giving birth to her second child, alerted us to the existence of Voodoo Doughnut in Portland, OR.
Were it not for her, we would have cruised through Portland on our way home from BlogHer, oblivious to the doughnut greatness it concealed. But instead, at 9:30 a.m. on a Monday morning, Katr and I rolled into Portland for some hot, fresh, fucking freaky-ass doughnuts. At Voodoo Doughnut, "the magic is in the hole".
They weren't kidding about the voodoo theme. It was like Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo in there, but instead of incense, you smelled doughnuts. I was so overcome by the size and variety of the doughnuts, the dirty names of some of their pastries (the Cock-and-Balls ... the Triple Penetration Chocolate) and the mesmerizing music that I stood there for several minutes.
Entranced.
Exhilarated.
Afraid.
Finally, Katr urged me forward to the counter, where we ordered a Voodoo Dozen (they choose 13 doughnuts for you. I prayed that we didn't get the Blood Doughnut). And then, my arms full of doughnuts, we went back to the car and sat there, stunned.
We knew we could get into serious trouble eating those doughnuts on the road. So we were very brave and waited until we got home. Here is what we got:
Amen.
I think these pictures are blurry because my hands were shaking. Just a little.
Okay, that was the top layer. Here's the bottom:
Are those ... FROOT LOOPS?
It took us a few days to get through our Voodoo Dozen. Each new doughnut was a taste sensation. My personal favourite was the Maple Boston Cream with Voodoo Icing - although Grape Ape was surprisingly delicious (maybe because we'd just spent all that time in wine country). Katr's favourite was the Glazed Sour Cream Cake with Dark Chocolate Sauce. Unnngh. So good. I...need a moment.
But that's not the end of the doughnut-related news! Read on!
As some of you may recall, I participated in a doughnut documentary last summer and then never heard another thing about it. Until May, when a film professor accosted me in a restaurant because she'd seen me in the documentary. Katr and I and some lovely out-of-town guests were chowing down at Da-De-O and I felt quite the celebrity. Nothing makes you feel so glamourous as being congratulated on your donut sex fetishist performance while you're elbow-deep in a platter of ribs.
Some keen detective work on my part and one Starbucks bribe later, I am now in possession of an 8 minute documentary entitled Doughnuts. And I have the director's permission to share it with you.
I don't feel that the camera added ten pounds in my case - but it DOES seem to have added bad hair, shiny face and teeny, squinty eyes. So before you watch, I'm going to have to ask you to keep in mind this much cuter picture of me:
You will be surprised by the difference in my appearance, but let's all remember that they WERE student filmmakers.
