My neighbor made donuts. Donuts. Real donuts. She did this after a long day’s work, and she’s also quite pregnant. I walked in the front door and saw my child’s face full of gooey glaze. Her two friends sat behind her. All three spoke as though they had mounds of marshmellows stuck in the back of their throats.

I walked home with a wonderful carmel/sprinkle specimen. I don’t eat wheat and make few exceptions since eating it, for me, is like hitting the bottle for an alcoholic. Two bites and I was transformed back to my childhood: I’d walk down to the corner store and pay 20 cents for a puffy sugar-glazed donut and saunter home eating it slowly, whiling away the afternoon with my good friend. I’ll save the rest for tomorrow.