Every culture has their version of fried dough. Hush-puppies, churros, beignets, zeppoli, malasadas, pirozhki, funnel cake, so on and so forth. But it's the ubiquitous doughnut that, at least in this country, takes the cake. So much creativity, so much inspiration. It's hard to find a doughnut that hasn't been tried at least once. (On a side note, I have heard of a Portland doughnut eatery happily named VooDoo that makes a maple bar topped with bacon and NyQuil & Pepto Bismol concoction. Former, yay! Latter, blech!)
A fellow AOL'er and foodie comrade hipped me to the most unfortunate named doughnut establishment smashed between campus and the airport. Named for a spunky Baltimore octogenarian (well, close... she was in her 70's) who gave the men of the late 1800's a run for their sporting money, all while breaking a few bones along the way. Her God given name was Prunella and soon was dubbed "Fractured Prunella". Inspired by her gumption, The Fractured Prune was born.
The same night as his glowing endorsement, my fiance and I hightailed it to the middle of nowhere for a sampling. The verdict?
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