On donuts and holes for Maundy Thursday
My sister Kathy was a fantastic cook. She was not a fancy cook – no pretentious things with French-sounding names could be found on her menu, no trendy vegetable artfully placed next to an escalope which is not much bigger than a nickel. (“Kale?!?,” I can almost hear her ask, almost see her furrowed brow, “Haven't we got a second cousin named Kale?”) And she always had a plethora of the most obscure things on hand – they could always be found in her untidy, overflowing cupboa