Every Day Begins With Dawn

 

October 18, 2021

 Greetings from the donut hole,

 There is a small donut shop in the city near where I work, it’s probably like one near you.  It is justbi g enough for several small tables, a few booths, but the main stage is the long glass cases filled with freshly baked donuts.  Or if you are feeling fancy, doughnuts.

 This one is Donna’s Donuts.  It’s the nearly the last of its kind, which has increased its charm, I think.  The other places in town have been edged out by the franchises, and maybe the vacillating interest in such sugary extravagances.

 When I was growing up, we went to Dawn Donuts, which like some people, grew up and moved away.  But when I was in my formative years, a trip to Dawn Donuts was an unparalleled reward.  Some mornings my Dad would come home with a box of deliciousness, but the real special occasions were going with him to pick the tastes we wanted. 

 When I was in high school, I had a friend who worked at Supreme Doughnuts, and often, when I was supposed to be in algebra class, I would slip away to have a chocolate-chocolate, with a sweet cup of coffee.  I would sit at the small square Formica table, which always rocked, across the room from the patrol cops who were always there, a little afraid they would ask me why I wasn’t in school.  Debbie would bring two diner mugs of coffee in one hand, a plate of chocolate in the other, charging me the same price as the idling law enforcement.

 Price aside, Supreme was only a substitute for Dawn Donuts, where, at the time, my pastry loyalty resided.  Of course, it was more than the glaze or the filling. Dawn Donuts, with its bold baker sign outlined in neon, and the outlandish kitschy-deco store front, was what I will always think of as where we get donuts.  After ice skating, after church, on special Saturday mornings.

 Nowadays, when I go to the donut shop, I notice two kinds of people.  First there are those that behave as if they have never seen a donut before in their life.  They stand in front of the displays, almost paralyzed by the choices.

“What kind is that?”

“It’s a nutty.”  The woman behind the counter is poised with a square of waxed paper in her hand.

“Mm. What’s in it?”
“Nuts.”

“Ok, one of those.  How many is that now?”
A glance down, and back up, barely disguised contempt: “Three.”

“Ok…..ummm…..”

The other kind of people are those who swagger in and almost without looking rattle off their order: “I’ll take a Bowtie, a ChocoCreamstick, a Bearclaw, a coupla Bismarks, chocolate not vanilla, and gimme six of those Pumpkin Streusel, and put those in a separate bag so I can eat em on the way home.”  They know the exact amount to pay, and the door has not swung closed before the first bite into the doughy deliciousness.

 I fall in neither camp.  I am easy to please in this environment, since I am not eating anything from the boxes I carry out.  “Eighteen donuts, please, mix them up any way you want.”

I have had my share of donuts in my history, and probably your share too, but evolution has twisted that desire out of me somehow.

There have been times I have arrived at Donna’s Donuts before 7:00 a.m. and there is a line of people out into the parking lot.  Even with social distance considerations, this is a lot of people.  In times past the place would be crowded with men, always men, huddled around tables drinking coffee and talking about the war or politics or sports.  It is the same with every place like it.

 Behind the counter are women, always women, in hairnets or hats, their clothes spattered with powdered sugar or nuts or chocolate, as if they have been in some pastry war.  They weave back and forth behind the counters, filling boxes and bags with various pastries, while others squeeze between with trays of new doughnuts from the kitchen.

“Help who’s next.” They call out, then “Hi Hon, what can I get you?”

 The regulars will pour their own coffee and sit back down at the tables, keeping up the chatter about the gummint and health care and the Lions or crime or the price of gas.  There is a bulletin board festooned with announcements about local events or lost cats, a few drawings from kids who have visited, ancient letters of thanks for softball sponsorships.  It’s a place with a unique feel, none of the packaged professionally merchandised essence at the Krispy Kreme or Dunkin’.

 I’ll admit I like going to Donna’s, not because of, or in spite of, the quality of the donuts, or the near-surly counter service, or the long wait in the parking lot to get my dozen and a half.  It’s because it is the echo of that other era when this kind of place was the norm, not the remnant exception. 

 Because it reminds me of Dawn Donuts, and those special moments with my sisters and brother, and whichever parent was the donut hero that day.  It reminds me when making a choice between flavors of donuts was the most important decision on my horizon.   Just the smell of fresh donuts takes me back to those moments, and it’s always worth the trip.

 

Hope this finds you with a baker’s dozen,

 

David

 

  

Copyright © 2021 David Smith