musings.schelley.org

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things was to go to stay overnight at my Nana and Papa Olhava's house. We'd watch Lawrence Welk or football or an old movie (a few years ago, I snatched Some Like it Hot from the Target special shelf simply because I remember watching it with my grandpa and laughing, laughing, laughing). We would eat dinner on TV trays - so novel compared to the monotony of eating at the kitchen table each night with my parents and brother. And in the morning, we'd have breakfast. I suppose that someone (probably Grandpa) went out a few times for donuts, and at a certain point, I associated donuts with spending the night at their house. Because once, I remember leaving when it was dark to go to their house, being asked what I wanted for breakfast and saying "I'd like donuts". Because Nana's mission in life was to spoil her grandchildren (probably payback for the hell my dad put her through during his teen and pre-marriage years), we went to Albertson's and bought donuts.

As an adult, I've tried to stay away from donuts. It's not just the lack of nutrition. Once in college, Ardis wanted donuts and dragged me to Kingpin, where in horror I watched the donut man cook donuts. The process involved dough, sugary glaze and one of the biggest vats of grease I have ever seen in my life. It made me feel very sick. (Ardis also bought a batch of freshly made donut holes from that batch, and may have forced me to eat one.) The feeling sick continues - a donut is a huge mountain of stuff to absorb, just making me feel nauseous once consumed.

Donuts have always figured into my adult life in some form or another. Suzette once brought a box of donuts to a party, but they didn't get eaten. Within a few days, donut juice weeped along the length of the counter, an interesting little scientific experiment. I first had Krispy Kreme in Floria when visiting Aimee and Adam in Panama City years ago. I made a special trip to the first Bay Area Krispy Kreme in Daly City, to wait with the crowds and buy donuts to share with Rob and Jen. I even lived a few blocks from the Krispy Kreme in Mt View.

But at the end of the day, I mostly managed to resist. I avoided all of the office donuts, fended off the lure of Dunkin' Donuts on multiple trips to Boston. Even within the year and a half that i lived within walking distance of Krispy Kreme in heart attack triangle, I stayed away, venturing only three times, twice for donuts and once for coffee. (Note: "heart attack triangle" refers to the shopping center on Rengstorff in Mountain View, which features a Krispy Kreme, McDonald's and In-N-Out, and which, when viewed from above, form a triangle. Technically, the Costco makes it a parallelogram, or some other geometric shape that I know longer need to know, but no need to be technical).

Until about six months ago that is, when my donut walls crumbled into a slag of sprinkles, sugar flakes and donut crumbs.

Seriously, since moving to Seattle, I have consumed more donuts than in the past five years. At least, maybe even longer. Keep in mind, I have only lived in Seattle about six months. Really, Seattle should not be called the Emerald City, it should be called the Donut City. Donuts appear at least every couple of weeks at the team meeting. I live a few blocks from Top Pot, using it as a familiar landmark to describe where I live. I've even been to Top Pot a few times, dragging visitors - it's a Seattle thing.

I've tried protesting that I don't like donuts. But the reality is that donuts are a bundle of deliciousness and my protests are just feeble attempts to convince myself that I don't like them. A few weeks ago, Will described donuts as "a buffet of textures". I'm not sure I'd go that far, but the reality is that donuts are cake covered with frosting, and if the winds are blowing correctly, sprinkles (a weakness). I like cake. I like frosting. The one crucial difference: the addition of grease via the deep frying process. But that just makes the donut even better.

How can I really say no?