Oliebollen / Dutch-Doughnuts

Oliebollen, in all their golden, irregular glory, come straight out of my favorite cookbook from 1941.

A time when sugar was optional, austerity was normal, and nobody cared about air fryers, or how “light” something was. They cooked because it was cold outside, because people were coming over, because life was short. I add a bit of sugar not to modernize the recipe, but because it simply makes them better. A small act of rebellion against the stoic Dutch simplicity of the era.

This batch makes about 24 oliebollen, which sounds like a lot until you remember that freshly fried dough tends to disappear the moment you turn your back. Halve it if you’re disciplined, double it if you’re not. I usually double.

For me, oliebollen start long before New Year’s Eve. They begin on the 11th of the 11th, St. Martin’s night. If you grew up in Venlo, you know exactly what I mean:
the entire city flickering with lanterns, kids singing slightly out-of-tune songs, parents trudging behind with the patience of saints, and everyone slowly moving toward the Nolensplein. There, the story of St. Martin was re-enacted every year again, half-lit, half-remembered, half a cape… and then came the part we actually waited for: the bonfire. The heat, the sparks, the smell of burning wood mixing with cold air. If you were lucky, someone’s mother or grandmother would pass you a still-warm oliebol, out of the blue, just because. That’s when winter really began.

These days they’re a New Year’s Eve thing, eaten at midnight with a glass of champagne in hand… a pairing that absolutely destroys the champagne, but tradition has its stubborn charm. Honestly? They’re far better with hot Mexican style chocolate, or any warm drink that doesn’t cost €40 a bottle.
Or, and hear me out… a small glass of tawny port. Something with age, warmth, and enough backbone to stand next to deep-fried dough and still hold its dignity.

Call them oliebollen, call them Dutch doughnuts,.. they’re rustic, comforting, unfussy, and perfect. The kind of food that makes you feel grounded in your own history, even if it’s only for the five seconds before you reach for another one.