LatinosUSA

My dad grew up in the 1930s and 1940s. I know little about his early life, though I do know he came from meager means. His mother and father separated when he was around twelve, and he and his mother moved from one apartment to another, depending on what they could afford. Coming out of the Depression, when money was scarce, mothers often had to get creative in the kitchen — and that’s how Dough Boys were invented in our family.

I’m not sure where the term Dough Boys came from, but that’s what my father always called them.

Dad was what I would call a tough guy, but a softy at heart. He loved to drink with the guys, yet he’d give a friend the shirt off his back.

After serving nine years in the U.S. Army during the Korean War, he opted out once he was married with kids. Staying put mattered more than traveling the world. As it often does, drinking interfered with life for my mom, my brother, and me. Still, he adored me as much — if not more — than I adored him, no matter what. Even with the ups and downs of life, those Dough Boys somehow brought us back together as a family.

The highlight of a Sunday morning was when my mom made the famous Dough Boys. She shaped the dough into round, flat pieces and served them hot from the pan. We all sat around the dining room table, patiently waiting for each batch to finish frying as the aroma of warm dough drifted through the kitchen. We filled our bellies with the fried dough she kept bringing out until the last bit was gone. All the troubles and worries were put aside, and a warm family memory blossomed. The taste of those Dough Boys — warm, buttery, salty, sometimes with a little jelly on the side for dipping — is something I’ll never forget.

In the nearly thirty-five years since my parents have been gone, my brother and I continue the Dough Boy tradition. We introduced them to new members of the family, and they’ve become a holiday breakfast favorite. The newbies added their own twists with tomato sauce or syrup, but I still stand strong with my dad’s original salt-and-butter version. Some of the little kids, being picky eaters, didn’t take to Dough Boys at first, but we’re hopeful they’ll come around to the way of the Dough Boy.

Since my brother is also gone now, it warms my soul to remember my mom cooking those Dough Boys and my dad urging us to tell her how good they were, thanking her for making those Sunday breakfasts so special. Those simple moments — a warm kitchen, a plate of fried dough, the three of them together — have become the memories I hold closest. They’re the taste of home, and the part of my family I get to carry forward whenever my children request them, keeping the Dough Boy tradition alive in their hands now.