I’m On A Mission From God
Last Friday was “National Donut Day.”
We’re talking about the pastry and not the parking lot maneuver done by drunken teenagers with the family car on Saturday night.
There is a fact little known outside of Terre Haute (That’s French for “Can I have some more.”), Indiana, but we produce the best donuts this side of everyplace else.
I’m talking about “Square Donuts” here. Not round. Not triangular, and certainly not Kremed and Krispy. I know that taste is subjective, so after an extensive fact finding mission I can “Objectively” state that I am right.
This past Friday morning, after I returned from early services at St. Arbucks, my wife, the lovely and Gourmand to the Faithful, Dawn, asked me if I would go and get her some Square Donuts in honor of National Donut Day.
How could I say “No?”
Her request was so logical, sensible and edible that only a fool could refuse. And my Mama didn’t raise no fools. A couple of whining neurotics perhaps, but no fools.
One of the two “Square Donuts” shops is just a few minutes down Wabash Avenue from home, so I tucked in my shirt, put on my S.F. Giants cap, grabbed the keys to the car and wove my way through the poorly parked cars on our street.
I knew that “Square Donuts” is usually sold out and closed by 10 AM. My S.F. Giants wrist watch said 10:21 AM. My pulse shifted into a Samba rhythm. I hit the gas (That’s the pedal on the right, for you idiots who can’t seem to find it when the light turns green.).
Traffic slowed as I approached my destination. My first thought was that there had been a car crash or a demonstration for or against something pointless. But, no, it was the line of cars trying to get into the Square Donuts parking lot.
Holy Metformin, Batman!
It took me a couple of minutes to get into the line. I wasn’t trying to go through the take-out window line. I don’t do take-out windows. I am completely tied into a right-handed world so much that I can’t even make a left-handed compliment.
After a couple more minutes I was able to get out of the take-out line and divert into the parking lot of the TV station next door. I think they are used to having donut seekers parking in their lot. If they aren’t – Get over it.
Inside the tiny shop, that was packed tighter than a Chicago ballot box, I placed my order and thought I was going to get out there smoothly.
Well, so much for that idea.
Standing behind the cash register at the other end of the display case was the mother of a former client. If I remembered correctly this woman could talk without breathing for hours. Amazing Pulmonary Fortitude.
The place was filled with people wanting their donuts, salivating like Pavlov’s dogs, and this gal wants to chat.
I tried waving but she semi-yelled out a greeting. I waved again and tried an exit line, “Give everybody in the family my best.” I started to leave again, but she stopped me with, “Mikey is in jail.”
Oh. “Mikey” had been my client a few years back before I retired.
Just like in, “When Harry Met Sally,” everyone in the shop stopped talking to hear what I would say. All creativity jumped ship on me. All I could think to respond with was, “That boy needs to wake up and smell the donuts. G’bye now.” I bolted out the door.
I don’t know if the crowd applauded, laughed, or kept on salivating. I just wanted to go home and present the yeasty treats to my loving, and by now probably salivating too, wife.
Thank God that National Donut Day comes but once a year. I won’t have to go back to that place again for a while.
Maybe I should work on learning how to go right-handed through all those left-handed drive-through windows in the world.