Ma’s Donuts.

The picture sat in my inbox. A picture of an old recipe, brown with age, short on detail, ending with an abrupt: Roll out 1/4 inch think Fry.

Comical spelling error aside, there was only one short message sent with the image: It’s cold here!

Sent December 22, 2024. Not from my ma. Nor indeed from her ma. But from my dad’s ma, my Nana.

A donut recipe passed down through generations and one that we – my extended family and I – were all keen to make sure was passed down to us. Nothing was quite like the simple potato donuts, spiced with nutmeg, and fried to a golden brown.

And we all knew, though we didn’t say, the one who made these magical treats wouldn’t be around much longer.

Today, I gathered my supplies, opened my email, and searched for that recipe.

Something about being back in Korea, something about saying goodbye to loved ones again, something about not seeing that precious face among the people I saw in the States this time around…well, it just felt like it was time.

I know grief comes in waves. I know we all get caught off guard by a sudden reminder of what we’ve lost. But it almost felt like losing Nana twice coming back home for summer this year.

I knew, back in December, I would never see her again on this earth. And I said goodbye as best as I could and sent off a farewell message for my dad to read at her death bed. But it didn’t hit home until I reached the top floor of our home where she used to sit and read and I didn’t hear her greeting, “Well, look who it is!” – that she really was gone.

As I rolled out the dough, I remembered her gnarled but sure hands easily kneading the dough in a way that I just couldn’t seem to replicate. Her little shrugs when she’d add a dash of flour there, a touch more of nutmeg – who cares about measurements when you can just tell it’s right?

My dough stuck more to my counter – I made a right mess of it, to be honest. I’ve also never fried anything in my life, so I couldn’t be sure that the oil was ready and just tested tiny bits of dough until it seemed right.

Slowly but surely I tipped in one donut, two…watched religiously as they fried up and rose to the surface, that at least was promising.

But I didn’t get my hopes up. Not until the final test.

I scooped them out when they were brown enough. Let them rest. Waited as long as I could before I ate. And then –

Potato, nutmeg, memories.

They’re not beautiful, by any means, but they taste right. And they brought her back in some small way once more.

Love you always, Nana. Thank you for the sweet treats.