JP (dustoff) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-07-30 16:33:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | # 2018 [07] july, hazel dolan, julius preston doyle |
Who: JP and open
Where: UMCB kitchens
What: Attempting donuts
When: Er... This evening. (July 30, 2018)
The concept was simple. If he could figure out ice cream, he could figure out donuts. It was just fried dough. There was nothing difficult about it. JP had made donuts at least a hundred times before, in a time when it was possible to get fresh ingredients just by walking down the street to the store and filling a cart with more than you walked in the door for. It wasn't like that now. Options were limited. Also there was no way he was going out into the world again until someone could give him honest-to-God proof that there was not a single zombie walking the earth. The whole locking himself in a walk-in-fridge while everyone else in the restaurant met completely horrific ends had turned him off of going anywhere but the roof for the time being.
It also meant that for him to get the weird things he required to provide meals for the good people of the UMCB, someone had to go outside and put themselves at risk. Most of the time he squashed that thought down. It didn't exactly serve him to constantly be worried about where his ingredients came from. But some time it flickered through his mind like an old reel of film and left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
But, he supposed, if people he'd grown to care for and consider part of his strange, end-of-the-world family were putting themselves in danger for their dinner, he may as well make the best of it--for everyone's sake.
And that's where the donuts came in. It was an idea not hatched from his own mind, but he so wished he had thought of it. After trying in vain to work with various flours, meals, and other ground up things that kind of resembled flour in some way, he'd come to the conclusion that the issue was a total lack of rising agent. A good packet of yeast wasn't exactly easy to come by, but it seemed everyone could get their hands on alcohol, and it was less likely to have gone bad in the years that had past since everything went to hell. And sure enough, with a little bribing, he'd managed to get his hands on 12 bottles of Corona, still in the box. When mixed with a honey-cinnamon-cornmeal batter, it smelled distractingly good--almost good enough to eat from the bowl, though he was sure that wasn't healthy. The real test would be dropping some into the pot of hot oil. When a perfect, golden brown ball of donuty goodness blossomed and floated to the top of the pot, he ran around the kitchen shouting, "MOTHERFUCKINGYES!" Basically, he couldn't contain himself--it was attempt 13, after all--not that it mattered since he seemed to be alone for the moment.