It was a dark and stormy night. (Well, isn’t it always in Oregon?) We had made our way down to Old Town to attend a presentation on a gastronomy master’s program in Italy. Because we were slightly late, there was no where to sit and almost impossible to understand the presenter. We left ten minutes later. As we crossed the street to the car, I saw it – the small Voodoo Doughnuts sign hanging on a run down brick building. I had heard rumors about the bacon maple bars and just like Pavlov’s dog, I started salivating.

It didn’t take much convincing to get Geoffroy back across the street. Until now he’s always been curious about doughnuts, but not a huge fan. We stepped inside the yeasty, sweet smelling shop that is claustrophobically pink. Our eyes gazed at the chalkboard list trying to take in the choices while I line quickly formed behind us. Frustrated with our lack of decision, the people behind confidently stepped around us and up to the counter.

After a good fifteen minutes of pondering, we finally made our selections. I was unfortunately thwarted – my top two picks of the bacon maple bar and the raspberry-filled voodoo doll were sold out for the day. I settled on a plain maple bar (sigh) and a cake doughnut glazed with chocolate and sprinkled with coconut.

As we climbed into the car, the sweet perfume permeated the air between us causing Geoffroy to lose control. He quickly bit into his mango-filled doughnut, closing his eyes in delight. For a while he couldn’t speak. Not because he was overwhelmed by how good it tasted but because his mouth was never empty. Three doughnuts disappeared before we could get home. The remaining five were gone by morning.

During a recent dinner party, the conversation turned to Voodoo. Geoffroy lovingly described his new-found passion for doughnuts. Just by mentioning the name, the obsession took root in our brains. The next morning on the drive back from Hood River, we plotted our way to the eastside store. Painted in Pepto Bismol pink, it’s hard to miss. From the parking lot the same seductive scent wafted to our nostrils and we yearned to be satisfied by sinking our teeth into some yeasty goodness.

But alas we were thwarted – the sign said, “Cash only – and no whining.” With just a credit card in hand, we returned to the car. But that didn’t stop us – oh no. The pull of the thick, mapley glaze sitting on top of a pillow of dough was too strong. We drove around for 20 minutes in a desperate ATM search, jonesing for our sugar rush. Wish cash in hand, we raced back to the parking lot and stood in line. As the line got closer to the counter, we could see that the pickings were slim. No maple bacon bars, no mango filled, no voodoo doll, no double chocolate penetration. Just a few sad looking cake doughnuts circling around the case surrounded by sprinkles of those already sold.

As we left the parking lot with the bitter taste of defeat in our mouth (rather than a yeasty, yummy doughnut), we had one more trick up our sleeve. We would drive across the river and swing by the original location in Old Town. Surely they would still have what we craved. Circling the block to find a parking place, Geoffroy informed me to keep driving. Evidently many other people had the same great idea as the line to get in the Voodoo Doughnut door was twenty people long.

We finally gave up, although we put a pretty good fight. As the Voodoo Doughnut sign got smaller in my rearview mirror I felt denied and definitely unsatisfied. Try as we might, we weren’t able to overcome our cravings. Two days later we came back and sweet, sweet victory was to be had.

As I eat the last raspberry filled bite of the voodoo doll, I wonder if I’ll be able to fight off my next craving. I won’t tell you how many we ate – it’s a little embarrassing. But I will tell you that we are fat and happy!

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