Ever since the summer between kindergarten and first grade, the era in which I almost put the tooth fairy out of business, I have been in love with cake donuts. That year began a series of summers spent at my grandparents’ farm, and a trip to the farm meant three things: a stop at Winchell’s for an assorted box of cake donuts and apple fritters; a bonfire in which brush from the fence row would be used to roast hot dogs and marshmallows; and countless hours spent sitting at the end of the dock overlooking the pond, waiting for a cork bobber to be pulled under the water.
For many years, happiness was a sunny summer morning spent at the breakfast table with my grandpa, watching him dunk the broken half of a cake donut into his green coffee cup while country music played on the radio, a breeze fluttered the curtains, and car tires and farm trucks crunched their way down the dusty gravel road. They were some of my best days.
Once upon a time, my now-grown-up little family of four spent Sunday mornings together at a local donut shop before heading to church. That tradition lasted about six years until they turned into teens and children who were grown and gone. I miss times like this when my then-little son stole my donut and approached it in his own, very interesting way.
There is now a specialty donut shop in our metro area, and they sell novelty items best described as a smile in a box.
Credit: Hurts Donut Company website
The temptation to turn down memory lane and drive the 45 minutes to buy them regularly tugs at my heart. I usually resist, but every once in awhile, I decide to time travel via cake donut and icing. When I do, I can almost feel the summer breeze on my face and hear Kenny Rogers singing on the radio.