There has been a box of donuts left in the classroom I teach in every afternoon. It has been tempting me for a week. The first day I received a wonderful text letting me know that fresh donuts were available. I came early and enjoyed a feast of a chocolate Bismarck. These were really good donuts with a wonderful dough and chocolate icing with a rich Bavarian cream filling. I normally prefer maple bars but something said I should go for the chocolate. I was really glad I did.
I started my class after licking my fingers for the last bit of sweetness. I was so satisfied. As soon as the students got started with their activity for the day I went back for a maple donut. Yummy! I hadn’t eaten lunch so I justified the second donut. I stopped there and left the mostly full box for others to enjoy.
The next day the box was still in the classroom and mostly full. I had another donut. It wasn’t as soft and rich as the day before but it was still really tasty. I had a cup of black coffee that I could dunk the donut in. It was day two of pleasure.
By day three most of the donuts were gone. I should have thrown the box away but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Once again as the students departed to work on a project I grabbed one of the last donuts. It was definitely harder than the day before but surprisingly still flavorful. Each day I justified my indulgence by the fact that I hadn’t had lunch.
Today there was only one donut left. It had been in the same box over the weekend making it at least 7 days old. I couldn’t eat it. I was tempted but stayed resolved in my concern for my health. I was surprised that any donuts were left considering how many students and teachers had been in and out of the classroom over the course of the week. I knew I had to throw the box out once and for all.
I decided to photograph the one remaining donut with my cell phone. I wanted to honor the pleasure this box had given me for nearly a week. You could see remnants of various frostings and the grease marks where donuts had been placed in the box.
As I photographed the donuts I was reminded of early childhood memories of my father waking my brother and I up at 6am to go to the laundromat. We didn’t want to wash clothes but he would entice us with a promise of a box of donuts from the bakery across the street.
Each Sunday morning we would go with the promise of a maple bar and a cinnamon twist donut each. We would take the rest of the box home with us to share with my mother and sister. By the time we got home I was ready for a third donut.
My parents would play albums of Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass and us kids would drink orange juice while my parents had their coffee. They are happy memories that are conjured up by any cardboard box full of baked goods.
One Sunday morning a man and wife and their young kids approached us holding a bible. They wanted to witness to us. I hadn’t heard the term before and I had also never heard my father cuss so loudly as he yelled at them to leave him alone.
I asked him what they had done to upset him but he wouldn’t say. He just said they should leave him the God Damn Alone! He went back to reading the paper while my brother and I took turns spinning the quarters that were destined for the drying machine after the final rinse.
Ironically, a couple of weeks later as I was sitting on the front porch I watched as this very same family moved into the house next door. My father had to swallow his pride and apologize and welcome them into the neighborhood.
Perhaps he should have just offered them a donut in the first place. It would have been nicer and I’m pretty sure the man couldn’t preach and chew at the same time.
Kind Regards,
Ira