Are Donuts Healthy?

About five years ago there was a stirring of controversy in America around the donut.  Critics were calling for the donut's annihilation, pointing out that since the rise of so many Krispy Kreme establishments America's collective weight had skyrocketed, with obesity numbers among children among the highest in the world.  And there was, I must say, a backlash against donuts, in particular.

But let me be clear.

The donut has always been, and was always meant to be, a treat.  Not a staple.  Not a dessert.  Not a food group.  And certainly not a breakfast alternative.

I've always kept donuts in their proper category, I think.  (Although, I must admit, I can at times push the limits of decency with these things and go hog wild in a Krispy Kreme rush when the sign is flashing "HOT DONUTS".)

Yet, donuts are--and have always been for me--a treat.  And this in moderation.

I'm not down on the donut. I'm high on powdered sugar.  Especially with coffee.  Hot.  With cream.

I generally don't eat donuts for breakfast.  My mornings are predominantly reserved for writing, for heavy workouts at the gym, and for light breakfasts and/or study with friends (usually oatmeal out).  If I'm going to eat a donut for breakfast (or two or three) I'm usually going to counter that little caloric setback with extra time on the stairmaster or more reps on the bench.  In other words, I'm going to EARN IT.  

I like donuts.  Donuts are, in all likelihood, my favorite food.  Hence, this blog.  If I were on death row and the warden came to me and said, "The governor has denied your request for a stay of execution and so I need your last meal request" . . . I'd probably order a half gallon of ice cold milk (skim) and a dozen donuts.  Actually, I'd probably only order eight donuts.  Since it was my last meal, I'd want to eat in moderation.  That way, I could lose a few pounds.      

Boyden's Bakery

The next time you are driving southside Indianapolis and are hit hard by a donut craving, don't hesitate to visit Boyden's bakery on Hanna Avenue.  I visited again last week and was glad I did.

Boyden's has been an old-school German bakery and southside establishment for eighty years (Happy Birthday, Boyden's).  The young lady who talked to me last week informed me that her family has run the bakery in its current location for nearly fifty years.  

Specialties?  Listen, I asked about the coconut macaroons . . . which my wife and I agree are the best we've ever tasted. Boyden's used to make these great mounds of coconut shavings during the weeks leading up to Christmas, but the Boyden's baker admitted that these have since fallen off the baking list.  "No wonder," I said.  "Since I moved to Brownsburg I'm not in here as often.  I was the one who used to buy your whole daily allotment.  Sure miss those!  When I lived on the southside, I was a six-macaroon-a-day man. I had to go through a coconut macaroon twelve-step program. Can you tell I've lost weight?"

Okay, but my absence doesn't help Boyden's!  Other folks on the southside are going to have to pull their weight.  Let's get with the program folks!

Still, a person can't go wrong with a Boyden's cake or cookie.  I'm telling you, nobody bakes a better cookie.  Lots of traditional and new-fangled flavors and varieties to choose from.

Me?  By the time I prepared to leave I was up for a couple of donuts.  I purchased a cup of coffee, thanked my Boyden's host for a nice visit, and waltzed out with two traditional blueberry cake donuts in a white paper bag.  One of these was gone before I pulled out of the parking lot.

And the coffee wasn't bad either!

Just remember: before you eat and drive . . . all things, including donuts, in moderation!   

Boyden's Bakery Gator Tails

Last Wednesday I found myself on the University of Indianapolis campus where, after meeting with a student, I had a relaxing lunch and a quick visit at University Heights UM Church and reconnected with old friends.  Driving west on Hanna Avenue on my way back to Brownsburg, I suddenly found myself changing lanes, eager to get at the sweet somethings that I knew were waiting for me at Boyden's bakery . . . one of my frequent southside haunts and a top-notch donut hole!

I was not disappointed.

When I walked in, I found I was the only afternoon customer and the bakery appeared vacant.  The display cases, however, were filled with marvelous treats--donuts of sundry size and appearance as well as cakes, cookies, and fresh-baked pies.  One particular offering caught my eye:  an elongated pastry with an off-color greenish glaze sprinkled with chopped pecans.

Gator Tails, the sign said.

I studied this fare for some time, salivating, but then realized that those Gator Tails were BIG and I had just come from lunch.  Better not waste a good thing.  Besides, I had a bit of a drive back to Brownsburg and the scent of brewed coffee was hitting my nostrils hard. 

When a young lady walked out of the back room, startled to see that she had a customer, I knew I had my questions about this old southside bakery.  And there was plenty of time for a visit.

I wasn't getting a gator tail, but I couldn't wait to hear her tale of Boyden's history.

Living By Dunkin' Donuts (Part 4)

I'm still waiting for the Dunkin' Donuts manager to call.  I'm sure he has my application and my resume.  Every time I visit the store, I pause at the exit and try to imagine what it will be like when Dunkin' calls me, when I get the job as quality control expert.  I imagine what it will be like when I can wear a Dunkin' apron, my hands powdered with sugar, my arches stiff from standing over a hot oven with a cold glass of milk in hand, ready to taste-test another batch.  Believe me, it will be a great day in my life.

Until then, I'm enjoying living in the bright lights of the Dunkin' Donuts sign.  Most nights, before I go to sleep, I look out the front window at home and catch a glimpse of the DD logo shimmering under the moonlight in the distance.  I wonder who is eating in there, and what types of donuts the manager is preparing to create the next day.  I wonder if they miss me.  I ponder if my resume is getting closer to the top of the pile and if, by some sweet turn of fate when the manager has an itchy finger and two employees call in sick with scurvy, he may think of me and dial.  I'll be waiting by the phone, anticipating my caller-ID to read:  The Manager Needs Your Donuts.

These are often the last thoughts I have at night, before I turn out the light next to the bed and lean over and kiss my wife and tell her I love her.  Often, I get confused and say, "I love you, Dunkin'" and I can feel my wife's icy stare puncturing the darkness, wondering if I'm seeing another woman.

I'm not . . . but she probably wonders why my passionate goodnight kisses often taste like raspberry jelly and why, almost out of force of habit now, I wipe the tell-tale signs of powdered sugar on the cold side of the pillow and weep.

I could, of course, get on with my life . . . if only the manager would call me.

Living By Dunkin' Donuts (Part 3)

After my interview with the Dunkin' Donuts manager I came home and told my wife about my experience.  She thought I was joking at first, but then realized the only thing I ever joke about is sex . . . and that, usually, while I'm in the middle of it.  "You did what?" 

"I've just come from the arms of the manager," I said.  "I think he'll hire me.  I was impressive."

"And when do you think you're going to work these hours?" she wanted to know. 

"I told him I was interested in the wee morning shift," I said.  "Before anyone with a life has risen from bed.  I can get the store opened up and running every morning."

"You'll burn out," she told me.  "And what about your blog?  Your books?  Your thousand essays?"

"I'll write in the evenings," I said.  "After midnight."

"They won't hire you," she said.  "They'll want full-time people.  Young ones."

"You're wrong," I said.  "They'll call.  Oh, they'll call!  I told them I could be the quality control expert.  You know, sample the donuts to make sure they are up to snuff, that no broken or chipped ones reach the front shelves."

"You're crazy," she said.

"Well, you know that," I told her.  "But this kid was so young, I doubt he knows crazy from crayola. You should have seen me in there.  I was brilliant.  Inspiring.  Very macho.  I'm telling you, they will call me.  Who wouldn't hire a guy who would work for free?"

"For free! They won't do that," she said.  "There are laws.  Corporate rules.  What did you tell them you would work for?"

"Milk," I said.  "Specifically, skim.  A half gallon a day."

Becky walked away.  And as memory serves . . . she came to bed late that evening with a headache.

And she calls me crazy . . . . 

Living By Dunkin' Donuts (Part 2)

Before Dunkin' Donuts opened another store, a mere 300 yards from my house, a manager was hired and a sign erected which read: Applications Now Being Received.  Although I had a job, I could not resist the temptation to apply for such a sweet gig and I was one of the first in line to interview with the manager:  a young, twenty-something, corporate type who seemed uncomfortable with a middle-aged man applying for a non-managerial position.

After reviewing my application, and noting that my salary and benefits were sufficient to remove me from the running for the head-baker position, he wanted to know what future I saw in working for Dunkin' Donuts.

"Are you kidding me?" I snapped back.  "There's no one in this town . . . no, in this county . . . who knows donuts the way I do!  I've been running on Dunkin' long before America was!  And listen, I only live 300 yards away.  When there's five feet of snow on the ground and none of your other employees can get to work, I can crawl over here in the dark and unlock the doors."

He smiled a bit but didn't seem taken in by my five-feet of snow analogy.  "Why do you want this job?" he asked.  "What do you see yourself doing here?  Management?"

"Listen," I said, "I manage people all day.  I'm up to my eyeballs in people.  I want to branch out.  I want to work with donuts.  I'll be your quality control expert.  You put me back there on the ovens.  As those suckers come out, if there's a donut that doesn't come up to DD standards, I'll consume it and get rid of it before it reaches the front lines.  Give me a half gallon of milk and some tongs, I'm good to go."

The manager was warming to me; I could tell I was reeling him in like a starving barracuda.  He was a young pup and didn't know he was up against a master persuader.  Fact is, if I could talk my wife into sex, I could surely talk him into a job.  The way I saw it, donuts were much easier than romance.

"Why do you want this job?" he asked again, staring down at my long and illustrious pastoral resume and my enormous tally of published material.  He was scratching his scalp, and he had no dandruff. Something told me he was fresh out of college and this was his first assignment. 

"Okay," I said eventually, "I'm not wanting to take a job away from anyone.  This is a tough economy. But I doubt you're going to find many young punks who will work the early shift. I'm talking three a.m.  Four a.m. start time.  That's when you bake the suckers isn't it?  That's when the donuts have to be taste-tested?  That's what I'm interested in.  Early hours.  Pre-dawn.  Bitter cold.  Let me open the place, get it warm and get things running so America can get running.  And listen, you don't even have to pay me.  I'll just take the milk.  Make it skim.  I'm on a diet."

By now the manager was certain.  I was insane.  He repeated again, "Why do you want this job?"

I handed him my business card and taped my finger on the application clip board.  "You've got my contacts," I said.  "I guarantee you . . . no one will work harder in this job.  You want a real man in here, you'll call me."

And that was that. 

I couldn't wait to get home to tell my wife what I'd done. 

Living By Dunkin' Donuts (Part 1)

Two years ago a vacated custard ice-cream shop near our house was renovated into a Dunkin' Donuts.  The first time I drove past the establishment I felt my arteries constrict and my cholesterol level shot up twelve points.  I was one of the first customers in the long "free donut" line the day this Dunkin' Donuts opened.

The day the store premiered, I also paced off the distance from my front yard to the Dunkin' Donuts entrance.  It was less than 300 yards.  I felt another shot of adrenalin. I hurried home and told my wife the good news.  She feigned interest and told me I needed to "get a life."

Well, I've got a life all right . . . and it frequently includes a walk to Dunkin' Donuts.  Walking there is exercise.  And I feel an obligation to be neighborly.  I should also point out that the waltz to and from Dunkin' Donuts burns substantial calories, and doing all of that exercise requires that I refuel with a coconut cake donut or a jelly-filled.  Sometimes, I purchase a bag for the walk home which, again, is a substantial distance . . . like crossing the Sahara.  People who frequent our road see me walking home often--the picture of health--and they honk and wave.  Some of the neighbors have started calling me "the donut freak", but this is just a term of endearment and they mean no harm. 

Sometimes after I have walked home with a bag of donuts and changed into a three piece Italian-cut suit, I visit the drive-through on my way to the office.  I buy coffee and pretend I just came off the highway.  I speak with a Saskatchewan accent and pretend I have never heard of Dunkin' Donuts in my life.  The girl at the drive-up window always asks, "Say, didn't I see you in here just a few minutes ago?"

I tell her I have an ignorant Hoosier twin who eats donuts.  "And while you're at it," I say, "let me try one of these donut concoctions you speak about, don't you know.  Might go well with my coffee, Missy."

Another Bite of Donut History

The donut (or doughnut) is considered an American invention. 

The advent of this treat dates back more specifically to the first World War when, in 1917, a group of eleven Salvation Army women led by Helen Purviance went to work on a batch of flour and oil some miles behind the trenches in support of the American First Division.  Purviance prepared some dough and began frying dough rings in hot oiled pans.  The effort produced the first so called "doughnuts" and these quickly become a favorite treat among the soldiers.  These "doughnuts" were also served up with hot coffee along the lines for the duration of WWl and the boys who ate them soon earned the nickname "doughboys."

Coffee and donuts have been married ever since.

After the war, during the 1920's and well into the heart of the Depression, coffee and donuts evolved as the quintessential American treat and donut shops sprung up across the country.

Now . . . donuts have become a big business, a staple for breakfast and for treats.  I eat 'em.  You eat 'em.  And with coffee, who wouldn't love 'em?

It's a wonderful thing . . . knowing we are a part of such an illustrious history of dough. 

Just remember.  All things--including donuts--in moderation.

A Bite of Donut History

No one really knows where or when the first donut was made.  After all, donuts are little more than fried dough--and the first domestic recipes of the ancients probably revealed some form of the now-refined Krispy Kreme.  Various forms of ground barley have, in fact, been discovered in the stomachs and intestinal tracts of mummified Neolithics (say 10,000-12,000 years ago) and from this we can assume that someone had opened a donut shop in a cave entrance somewhere.

No doubt as humans began huddling into clans, and the clans huddled into communities, and communities became towns, various economies were born and some of these businesses were centered on cooking.  The ancient Egyptians, we know, were really into baking--and no doubt donuts were served to the masses who were sweating under the heavy loads of the pyramids.  The ancient Greeks and Romans were also into ovens, and they introduced new oils and flours into the mix.

Some may be surprised to learn that there is actually a Biblical mandate to eat donuts.  The Levitical law (Lev. 7:12) reads:  "You shall offer with the sacrifice of thanksgiving unleavened cakes mingled with oil, of fine flour, fried."  Good Lord!  Fried!  Praise be to Yahweh!

It may also surprise some to learn that one of the first treats associated with the Jewish Hanukkah celebration is Sufganiyah, or "jelly donut". 

So there you have some early history of the donut . . . and that's enough for me.

Breakfast looms.  And it's time to eat.  More history tomorrow.

Just remember . . . all things--especially donuts--in moderation.  Happy eating.

Top Pot Doughnuts, Seattle, WA

Top Pot Doughnuts in Seattle, WA boasts a short, but lively history. Established in February of 2002, the owners had purchased an old neon sign from a Chinese restaurant that read "Topspot".  But the "s" fell out of the sign, leaving "Top Pot" to shine as the beacon for doughnut lovers downtown.

Now, Top Pot has earned their reputation as creators of "hand-forged doughnuts".  And forged they are.

When my wife and I visited there in July of 2011 we were quickly embraced by the ambiance of the vaulted walls lined with books and bric-a-brac, and the blended aromas of fresh-brewed coffee and pastry urges one to step into the long line of humanity to place an order.  The line, by the way, was nearly beyond the front door . . . which should say something about the lengths some of us will go to enjoy a doughnut (note the old-fashioned spelling).

Seattle residents and visitors should be giving thanks to have Top Pot nearby, and anyone visiting the Space Needle need only walk south a few blocks to warm up or mellow out at a Top Pot table.

Goodnight, Seattle!  (Wait, someone else used to say that.)

Just remember . . . all things in moderation.  Even doughnuts!

Top Pot: Seattle, Washington

Photo:  Top Pot Doughnuts, Seattle. Becky and I sat in the balcony, second table from the foreground on the rail. 






Last summer my wife and I flew to the Pacific Northwest, rented a car, and meandered through Portland, the Columbia River valley, Mt. St. Helen's National Park, Mt. Rainier National Park, and eventually into Seattle where, on our final morning of this brilliant vacation, we asked the hotel desk:  "Is there a donut shop anywhere near by?"

We were directed--and in glowing, excited review--to visit Top Pot Doughnuts, an establishment which just happened to be a mere two blocks from our hotel. 

We walked through a gentle rain, but were not disappointed.

This landmark donut shop has been a part of the Seattle culture for many years and we could see why.  The menu featured some indescribably delicious selections, all huge offerings, which we plated, broke, and shared as if participating in holy communion.  And the coffee, served up in wide-brim mugs, provided the perfect pools for dunking.  We could see why Top Pot was tops, and why so many people were willing to stand in line--even outside in the rain--to gather a taste of Seattle's best.

The residents of Seattle, of course, love their coffee.  But the Top Pot fare complimented the brew with just the right mix of sugary glaze and complexity of tastes.  One woman, sitting below us in the floor-level foyer, was trying to polish off a baker's dozen--a sickening display of gluttony--but I do believe she made it.  But the donuts were so large, I couldn't have come close to eating four, much less a pile.  These donuts were for savoring . . . not for devouring.

Top Pot.  It will be on my list of landmarks to re-visit if I find myself touring in Seattle again.   (Photo:  Top Pot selections:  to die for!) 

And until we eat again, remember:  all things--even donuts--in moderation!   

First Pitch

Looking back, I can see that the donut has been a part of my life since my mother weened me, and even during the weening, I may have preferred coffee and donuts.  Some of my earliest memories involve donuts, including driving past an iconic bakery in Terre Haute, Indiana known as Square Donuts, and sitting at the kitchen table on Sunday mornings with my grandmother, who always preferred donuts to pancakes.  

A bit later, after my mother entrusted me and my brother with the keys to the kitchen, we often fried our own donuts:  a recipe that featured a tube of refrigerated biscuits and some Crisco.  Poke a hole in the dough, drop the rings into the hot oil, and presto . . . donuts.  Sprinkle some powdered sugar on top and that was our treat.  Sometimes I'd side-step my brother and eat the entire greasy batch myself.

Fifty years later, I'm still searching for the perfect donut--or the perfect donut experience.

That's what this blog is about.

I hope you'll join me here each day for a sneak peek at my triglyceride count and be willing to learn more about the donut.  I'll have some history, some fun, a fair amount of donut shop conversations, a few recipes, and heaping amounts of personal insights.  I'll also be dropping in on some of the best donut shops and bakeries in the great Indianapolis area AND reflecting on some other favorite donut haunts I've discovered over the years.

Don't think I can write a daily blog about the donut?  Think again.  Just check back, I'll be here most mornings with some tidbit or insight . . . licking my fingers.

And until we eat again, remember:  all things--including donuts--in moderation!