DONUDZ

M. and I spent last Saturday at the PBSJ making filhozes (Portuguese donuts) for the festa of São João. For hours on end, Mom and M. and I tag-teamed. She would drop the dough, my hubby would fry 'em up and I would sugar them. For hours we did this. Sales were pretty brisk all day long but when the dancing started at 11 PM, it was like the little Portagees were suddenly seized with an uncontrollable urge for greasy, fried, sugared dough. There was a rush on the booth. When we told people we were selling them for $1, tiny grizzled Portuguese men shook their fists and exclaimed "Bah!" and walked away but then would come back and buy a dozen. One woman bought 3 dozen! 3 dozen?! Mind you, I like filhozes as much as the next Portagee but they are really not that edible cold. Unlike a nice slightly stale American-style glazed or cake donut which is still delightful if somewhat dry the next day, there is absolutely no joy in eating a cold filhoz. Crowds gathered around the booth, demanding more donuts. We could not cook them fast enough. Little children held out fistfuls of dollars and begged for more. As soon as we'd place one down on the tray, one of the other booth workers would greedily snatch it into a bag. They were jockeying for position around the fryer as mobs of Lilliputian, filhoz-maddened Portuguese full of wine in their heads and fire in their bellies cried out for more donuts. I had a freak-out and nearly started crying and demanded that my mother deal with anyone addressing us. Fluent in Portuguese, I was nonetheless tongue-tied and could not explain to the disapproving ladies why we couldn't keep up with the orders. One man shouted, "Maria! Maria! Maria!" over and over again. I took no notice, thinking he was calling out for my mom standing next to me. He finally grabbed me by the arm and scowled and hollered "Maria!" Stupid me, I'd forgotten that EVERY Portagee girl IS a "Maria". Noticing the dwindling number of filhozes on the trays, people at the front of the line would cast suspicious glances over their shoulders at those waiting behind them and would increase their orders. The sighs and gasps of disappointment when the last filhoz was sold were astounding. You'd have thought someone had died. One man angrily demanded a donut for his little daughter. We told him there was nothing. He began to get angry and rose his voice. I was afraid, he looked like an old "Sons-of-Portugal" biker type. Great, all we needed was some beer-fueled shenanigans from this character. The little chubby Portuguese girl looked heart-broken. Someone found a misshapen, broken donut we'd set aside in a corner hours before and gave it to her - free of charge. Her eyes sparkled, the dad thanked us, and we called it a night.