Krispy Kreme Komforts

When I lived on the south side of Indianapolis there was a Krispy Kreme establishment that opened two blocks from the house.  This KK was a source of constant temptation to me . . . and I frequently found myself stopping by to grab a quick glazed.

The worst infraction, however, occurred one evening when the family was out of town.  Driving by the Krispy Kreme that night, I noted the HOT sign lit in the window.  And who can resist the hot glazed, fresh from the cooker?

I stopped in, bought a full dozen, and a block down the road, at a gas station, purchased a half gallon of ice cold skim milk.  Minutes later I was home, polishing off the entire dozen.

Naturally, I was nauseated, but those dozen hot glazed sure tasted good on the way down. 

And I've been drinking skim milk ever since.

Rolling Toward Crescent

From time to time people recommend doughnut shops . . . places I should visit.  A recent an article in an IU student publication suggested I visit Crescent Donuts, on Adams Street.

I've not been there, but the place sounds interesting:  real people making real donuts for folks like me who crave something unique.  Crescent seems like it would fit the bill.

Now that my daughter lives in Bloomington and has exponentially increased the odds that I will be traveling to Bloomington more frequently, I'll have to give Crescent a try.  This place appears to have all the trimmings.

And, if anyone out there has tasted this product and wants to comment, please do.  I'd love to get your first-hand recommendation while I'm rolling toward Crescent.

Seed Money

This donut seed idea could catch on.  There must be a way to develop these things.  If we can create a Hollywood set that looks like we sent a man to the moon, or if Sasquatch can eat beef jerky, or if Congress can get a 10% approval rating . . . then surely we can create a donut seed. 

Surely there is a think tank with men and women working on this right now . . . funded, or course, by millions of tax dollars.  If a Pentagon plunger costs $198.95, and a Senate whip can earn $195,000 a year, and a bottle of Clorox for the Washington Monument costs $245,000 . . . then surely to Betsy someone can figure out how to grow donuts.

In fact, I'll be working up some ideas this weekend . . . doing a few experiments in my basement using left over pizza dough and four empty Advil capsules.  I may not end up with donuts, but since we haven't yet vacuumed the carpet since the kids moved out, I'm sure I can grow something under the pool table.  It's dark and dank down there, and, quite frankly, the whole place gives me the creeps.  I don't go down there unless Becky is with me and I have a flashlight and some Perry Como songs are playing in the background.

At night there are sounds.  And in a few weeks I hope to reap my first harvest.  Jelly-filled, of course. 

Square Roots

A couple of weeks ago, while driving through Terre Haute, Indiana, I had made plans to stop by Square Donuts.  I drove over to third street, pulled into the parking lot, and discovered the establishment was closed.  Or, at least it looked to be vacant.

But I learned later, from good ol' Dad, that the Square Donuts had moved closer to the ISU campus, and I had actually driven past it on my way into town.  How could I have missed it?  Don't know.

At any rate, I feel like a square, not keeping a good eye on the horizon.  I can usually spot a donut shop a mile off, or smell the ambiance.

But next time I venture west, you can bet I'll fine Square Donuts.  I may be a round peg . . . but I can be a square.  I've got to get back on the wagon.

The Gas Station Donut (Continued)

(Continued)

So . . . did I eat that gas station donut?

Actually, no.  I passed on it.

True, I'm game for many challenges and when it comes to donuts, I have been known to eat about anything created from dough.  But that donut . . . it just looked too dangerous, as in diphtheria dangerous, black plague dangerous.

Which leads me to ask the real question:  what was that donut doing in the gas station display case?  Why keep it there if someone like me would find it attractive?

I may not ever eat a donut from a gas station . . . but believe me, I'll keep looking.  There's got to be a challenge out there somewhere!

The Gas Station Donut

Friday, on my way home from a hospital visit, I stopped by a gas station.  When I went inside to pay (cash), I noted that there was a donut in the display case.  A young lady behind the counter didn't flinch when I asked, "How much is that donut?"

She peered through the filthy, finger-spotted glass toward the treat.  "Oh," she said, "is that what it is?"

"Isn't that a donut?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," she answered.  "What were you planning on doing with it?"

"Well," I said, "I was considering it for lunch."

"Really?!!"  She seemed impressed, as if she were talking to a fellow in the circus who would soon be biting the head off a live bat or eating the gizzard out of a chicken.  "You would really eat that?"

"How long has it been in there?" I asked.

"As long as I've worked here," said.  "And isn't that mold?"

"Green food coloring," I said.  "Now you've got me intrigued.  I want it more than ever.  A donut like that . . . I can't pass it up.   It's a challenge.  How much is it?"

She studied the concoction in the case and eventually said, "I can't charge you for that in good conscience.  It might kill you."

"Even better," I said.  "Lay it on me!"

She pulled on the donut and it came out in strands, various-sized tidbits that she packed together like Play-Dough and delicately placed on a napkin.  "That is so gross," she said.  "You sure you want to eat it?"

I thought about it.  Really, I did.  "I'm not sure," I said, obtaining my first glimpse of the donut in full sunlight.  "Maybe I'd better pass."

"And I wanted to see you eat it!"  She called out to another young lady who was stocking the shelves.  "Guy here was gonna eat this!"

A crowd had gathered.  My reputation was on the line.  People were staring at me as if they had paid good money--perhaps a month's wages--to see a guy bite into a fourteen-month-old doughnut and live to tell about it. 

And no doubt . . . you're wondering, too . . .

(TO BE CONTINUED . . . )

Clean Up On Aisle Freebie

It happened on Monday morning when I arrived at the church.  They were still sitting there:  three plates of leftover donuts from the Sunday fellowship.

What did I do?  I ate 'em.  And why not?  No one else was going to do it.  If not me.  Who?  If not now, when?  And if not all of them, why waste?

Sure, I'll have to work out extra hard at the gym, but when the people don't eat the food, what choice do I have?  They must go down . . . like Moses . . . with milk . . . with coffee.

Total donuts consumed?  Not sure.  I stopped counting.

Kind of like that guy eating all the hot dogs at Nathan's on July 4.  One doesn't think about appetite.

The Cost of Free Donuts

NPR is now telling a fascinating story about the cost of free doughnuts.  (Thanks, Mike, for this one!)

Evidently, the Red Cross--which began serving doughnuts to the troops during WWI (and hence the term "doughboys")--began charging for coffee and doughnuts in 1942.  Many WWII veterans, especially, have resented the Red Cross ever since.

The story serves as a reminder that it is dangerous to "change lanes".  What once was free may produce resentment once there is a charge for it.

There are many companies and services that may fall into this category.  But there may be another lesson, too.

Everyone wants something for free these days, and maybe doughnuts fit into that category.  But then, is there really a "free" lunch? 

Makes me ponder:  whenever something is "free", who's really paying for it?

Kind of a doughnut mystery, isn't it?