And now – the Block Island Sinker. A doughnut like no other. Hand-made, served too hot to touch, dusted with cinnamon and sugar, wonton-crisp on the outside, the inside a hot, soft, butterfly-light miracle. It lasts a grand total of 15 seconds from pan to gullet, leaving embarrassingly ecstatic exclamations floating down the street, and a blissful, stunned sense of satisfaction as the final crumbs of sugar are licked from fingers. It’s like the best, most eagerly awaited doughnut you ever remember from your childhood, brought back to life even better than memory suggested.
Two minutes later, you realise how it got its name, as the lump of oily dough thuds to the bottom of your stomach like a runaway lift, and settles in for a couple of hours. Never again, you swear. And a few hours later, back from a bicycle ride … well, some of us just have to check to see that they are as good in the afternoon as they were in the morning. But this time, washed down with peanut butter chocolate chip ice cream. Will our clothes ever fit again?
The other foodie pleasure from Block Island you have to work for – fresh clams. We dug for them with new friends Dick and Carol, combing through the black sand for ones large enough to fail to pass through the gauge, and so end up in our bucket. Shops on the island sell all sorts of refined rakes to pull the shellfish out with minimal effort, but the best method is the straight-forward, bent-backed fingernail-filling scrabble, in a few inches of warm(ish) water in the Great Salt Pond.
Yesterday evening, we steamed them quickly in white wine, tomato salsa, garlic and spiced sausage, and ate them in the cockpit; fat and sweet and tender, mopping up the juice with home made tomato focaccia.
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