As a result of stern advice from my doctor (not to mention the recent diagnosis of prostate cancer), I have endeavored to lose weight over the past 4 months. Through a regiment of regular cardio, weight training and a strict and reduced caloric intake (documented religiously on a weight-loss app loaded onto my iPod), I have successfully lost somewhere between a fluctuating eighteen to twenty pounds.
During this time, I have only succumbed to one of my favorite guilty pleasures of doughnuts (or donuts), only three times. Fundamentally, there is no good thing health-wise that can be derived from doughnuts. They are essentially ring-shaped carbohydrates that have been fried. (Have you noticed that some of the best tasting things seem to be fried?) However, in spite of the nutritional deficiencies inherent in doughnuts, I would be remiss in not mentioning the pure gastronomic delight derived from these cardiac time bombs. I'm sorry but I cannot help but smile involuntarily upon my first bite into a newly cooked (yes, fried) doughnut. In my mind, doughnuts were the forbidden fruit growing on that tree in the Garden of Eden. It was no apple that Eve proffered Adam. It was a doughnut. It was the doughnut that gave Adam insight into the sins of the world and revealed to him his own nakedness as well as Eve's. But, I digress.
Abstinence often triggers memories of past experiences, and as I reminisce I can vividly recall the best doughnut I ever gobbled down. Flashback to 1996, during our family's three-year stint in Connecticut to support Joni's attendance at Yale Law School. We often tried to take advantage of the surrounding locale to explore an area we had not previously visited. One of our forays took us into Vermont where we toured the headquarters of Ben and Jerry's and visited the lodge of the Von Trapp Family (of Sound of Music fame). It was on our loop homeward that we spotted a barn on the side of the rural Vermont road that advertised "Apple Pie, Apple Cider, Apple Doughnuts" and invited us to "Come On In." There are many apple orchards in New England with structures adjoining the orchards that featured homemade delights made from apples. Honestly, we had not visited one that did not prove to be a joyful discovery. And so, with anticipation, we pulled into the dirt parking lot to visit the barn that housed the bakery and store.
As I crossed the threshold of the open barn door, I was overcome by the smell of apples and cinnamon. In front of me, loomed a Rube Goldberg contraption that occupied the entire central area of the main room. It featured a snake like switchback of conveyer belts, a central housing for the motor that powered the belts and a stream of hot, bubbling oil. At the far end, the conveyer fed O-shaped forms of lightly brown dough that ended in the bubbling stream where the raw doughnuts were delicately plopped. From there, the doughnuts drifted downstream slowly as they cooked. Finally, through with their little swim, the apple-infused doughnuts were picked-up by a final conveyor belt to be deposited into a bin where they were scooped up by the grandfatherly purveyor, put into a sheet of wax paper and placed in my outstretched hands. I could only look down at my hands in silent awe as I felt the warmth of the just cooked doughnuts radiate through the wax paper and the napkins beneath. As I looked up at Grandfather Doughnut, he smiled knowingly as if to say, "Yes, I know, it's a miracle isn't it? Wait until you taste it!"
The interior of that barn and everything else faded into black as my taste buds overwhelmed all other senses. My endorphins obviously exploded as the warm, fresh, apple and cinnamon infused doughnut hit my tongue. The texture was perfect. Crunchy on the outside with a velvety-smooth interior that melted like butter in my mouth. I must have eaten six in a row without pause. I think Marissa and Joni did the same. I had been transformed at that moment to a new level of doughnut spirituality and worship. Ultimately, we returned to our car, clutching another dozen of the doughnuts in a brown paper bag, the oil blotting the exterior as it soaked through. We resumed our trip home as the barn disappeared behind the bends of the road and the hilly green landscape.
I will never be able to return to that barn. I have no memory of what route we took as we returned from our trip to Vermont. It was over fifteen years ago now. Perhaps that orchard no longer exists or it was taken over by somebody else who dismantled that doughnut-making machine. Or, perhaps I'm just being pessimistic. Perhaps it is still there, run by the next generation of a family devoted to the family orchards and business. Whatever the case, I will never forget the best doughnut I ever tasted.
