I followed my parents’ lead for the spoken and unspoken commands of mass. My leather shoes pinched my toes with every movement, my velvet dress scratched my skin as we switched between standing and sitting, and the drawled voice of the priest made me sleepy. I didn’t know what he said, or I didn’t care to. I daydreamed instead about the sand castle I’d make once we got home with its rock inhabitants awaiting their daring prince to arrive with a beautiful damsel. On the bench, I absently scratched my belly. My mom noticed, grabbed my hand in hers and told me to pay attention, but I wrinkled my nose in response. Bowing my head, my prickly lace socks teased me.
When the final prayers were said, the chamber doors opened to the outside with a burst of fresh air. Freedom. A sweet, heavy smell wafted in. Between the chamber doors and the candle room was a folding table set up with large brown paper bags spotted with grease and crusted sugar. An older man with a black suit stood behind it. His face was filled with wrinkles and a kind smile. He asked, “Meia dúzia ou uma dúzia?” My parents always bought half a dozen malasadas, enough for our family.
My mouth watered on the car ride home. I complained when my mom told me to change before eating, refusing to let us stain our nice Sunday clothes. If I stayed in my dress I risked the sugar leaving a dark, sticky spot on the velvet. When I skipped down the hall, the malasadas were already out on the table.
Each malasada was a golden yellow mini moon the size of a dinner plate. My mom handed me mine, lying on a paper towel. Sugar coated my fingers and stuck to the sides of my mouth, clumps falling with each bite I took. Sweetness dissolved the greasy, fluffy texture of the malasada. It didn’t melt in my mouth, but lingered with the taste of chewy dough. Some parts puffed like a cloud, spongy between my teeth. Other, thinner parts made bites crunchy. I ate mine quickly, the warmth of the dough filling my stomach with familiar comfort. I knew if left overnight the malasada would become a soggy abomination. Eating it fresh was best. But as fast as I ate it, my bites were deliberate because the treat was only for that moment.
When I asked my mom when we could get more, the answer was rarely. Malasadas sold at Sunday mass were random and sporadic, and my mom hated festas. In the summer, churches and Portuguese clubs hosted festas, outdoor festivals, every week. As a celebration of food, festas had traditional Portuguese dishes — carne asada on skewers, chouriço and peppers, bifana sandwiches — made fresh, including malasadas. For my mom festas were boring and she refused to go to them. Each year I begged her to come with me to our church’s festa down the street, and she agreed to make me happy.
One of our festa’s service booths was dedicated to making malasadas. Gowned in white aprons, plastic gloves, and hairnets at least a dozen or more women volunteered around countertops, rolling, buttering, kneading, and frying dough at their respective stations. The flick of their wrists, the teamwork of maintaining oil temperatures, and the massaging movements of their fingers showed techniques passed down through generations making malasadas for their communities. Their hands stretched the dough in the air, inspecting each crevice for areas that were too thin to withstand the heat of the fryer. When a break in the dough appeared, they’d mash it between their hands again, patting out the inconsistency. Then they passed them to the frying team who dropped the malasada into the fryer while occasionally flipping it against the boiling oil. They worked like clockwork. Before my eyes, a dozen malasadas were molded and cooked in what felt like seconds. I watched as they were handed to the final team of women who dipped each side of the malasada in white sugar, once, twice, maybe even three times, and sprinkled more on top. Then in the brown bags they went, counted and packed for their eager customers.
When it was our turn in line, we asked for meia dúzia, as usual. Taking the bag, the sweet baked scent of malasada filled my nose. It drowned out the smells of smoking sardinhas, cigarette smoke, and perfume hanging in the air as I walked home.
In the kitchen, I unrolled the top of the bag. A sheet of white crystals coated the bottom. Flakes of sugar sprinkled into the bag as I pulled a malasada out and pushed it aside. The malasada left sugar littering the tablecloth with each indulgent bite. I knew trying to stay neat was a lost cause as sugar coated my fingers with a familiar tingle of stickiness. There was no other way to eat a malasada than to make a mess. My lips spread into a smile as I carefully chewed each fluffy piece, a sigh escaping my lips each time I came up for air.
Between each year of a delicious malasada, the number of attendees at festas dwindles. The elderly hands of the malasada cooks and the few volunteers who continue this legacy carry on family secrets and history with every stretch of the dough. But I can’t help wondering, in a few decades will I be able to find local malasadas? It saddens me to think they will be gone, where part of my culture is erased in my hometown. Yet as an adult, I understand the urge for newer generations to move on from cultural tradition. I, too, plan to move out of my hometown soon. While I love malasadas — the sweet treat that brought me comfort on Sundays after church and joy at festas — I’m content with leaving indulgence in them as part of my childhood. It’s bittersweet, knowing that I’m choosing to accept the fate of malasadas disappearing, but I take comfort in knowing the food isn’t what was important.
I have a craving for warm sugar on my tongue and my family gathered around the table. Long before I was born, my grandmother made malasadas for my mom, flipping the dough with the same adept hands as the festa women. I still wonder what her recipe was and how it was her own. Sometimes I want to ask my mom about it, but I know she never kept it because of her aversion to frying food. Her lack of interest, inevitably, has lost the recipe to time while also influencing me. Like her, upholding culinary tradition isn’t as important to me as making memories with people is. I also admit, with my lack of culinary skill, that I wouldn’t want to make malasadas on my own due to its complicated production. Instead I’m left waiting in line at another festa anticipating a finite, satiating sweet treat.
Image by Krisztina Konczos on flickr.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
“Memories of Malasada” is part of our upcoming anthology, A Table to Hold the World, Celebrating the Immigrant Roots of American Cuisine. This highly anticipated book from Zest! editor Deborah Norkin celebrates food transplanted into our American soil from every corner of the globe. Releasing later this summer, A Table to Hold the World will be available soon to pre-order.
- Memories of Malasada - August 6, 2026