Free Criminal Crumbs by Jessica Beck Page B

quickly over the bowl, and that’s going to be about one dash.”
    “I thought the sugar was a wet ingredient,” she said plaintively.
    “It is, but for this recipe, it goes in with the dry ingredients.” I grabbed the cup measurement and took another quantity out of the flour bin. “That’s it. Let’s go back out into the kitchen.”
    “What’s that for?”
    “You’ll see,” I said. Last, I spotted some peanut oil in a big container with a spout for easy pouring. “Grab another bowl for me, would you?”
    She looked pleased to be helping and came back a minute later. I handed her the bowl I’d mixed the dry ingredients in. “Take this back out front, and be careful not to spill any of it.”
    “Should I go ahead and add in the wet stuff to it?”
    “Don’t do anything until I get there,” I said.
    “Fine. I was just asking.”
    I tried to soften my voice. “Celia, believe it or not, there’s a real art to it, which I’ll teach you after I get the oil.”
    “What do we need oil for?”
    “It’s what we’re going to fry the donuts in,” I said.
    That seemed to satisfy her, and after I drew a sufficient amount of oil, I rejoined her in the kitchen, hoping that she hadn’t disobeyed me and started without me.
    She hadn’t, to my relief.

    I took out a nice pot from storage, added the peanut oil, and then put it on the stovetop, turning it to high. While the oil was heating, I took a smaller bowl, broke open and beat the eggs, then I added it to the dry mix that I’d made up in the pantry, holding that last cup of flour out of the mix. Once I had the consistency I liked, I added the milk and sour cream, folding it all in lightly with a whisk. It still needed a little flour, so I tipped a touch in, and Celia nodded knowingly. After kneading it gently for a minute, I touched the dough with two fingers, and nothing stuck to them. The consistency felt right to me, so I floured the countertop and then put the ball of dough in the center. Taking a French rolling pin, I rolled it out until it was around a quarter inch thick.
    “Now, we need a donut cutter. Would you look through the drawers and see if you can find one?”
    “What’s it look like?” she asked me.
    “I don’t mean to be flippant, but it resembles something that would cut a donut from dough.”
    “What if they don’t have one?” she said a minute after searching.
    “We improvise,” I said. Grabbing two different-sized glasses, I powdered their edges with flour and pressed down with the larger of the two.
    “I thought I was going to get to help,” she said.
    “Sorry. I forgot. You can cut out the holes, but I’ll lift them, okay?”
    “Okay,” she said. As I worked, Celia followed behind me with the smaller glass, cutting out holes from the circles I’d created. Using the point of a knife, I flicked the holes out and then pulled out enough rounds to start the first batch. The temperature of the oil was up to 375 degrees F, so we were ready to get started.
    “Celia, did you happen to see a slotted spoon while you were looking in the drawers?”
    She retrieved it quickly, a proud look on her face. After I took it from her, I said, “Now, take one of those wire cooling racks and put it on the counter, but first put down some paper towels to catch the extra oil.”
    I slid the first four rounds into the oil, being careful not to splash, and started to wait.
    “How long do they take?”
    “Two minutes on each side,” I said.
    “Nicole never let me help her in the kitchen. Thanks for including me.”
    “You two aren’t that close, are you?”
    Celia shrugged. “The truth is that we’ve never really gotten along. She was bossy growing up, and none of that has changed now that we’re adults.”
    “Do you resent her being in control of your money?”
    Celia frowned at me. “How did you know about that?”
    I shrugged. Had I just made a tactical error tipping my hand? “I didn’t realize that it was supposed to be a