I Don’t Do Drugs-I Do Dunkin’

I don’t do drugs. I don’t like the feeling of losing control of my mind. Really, there’s not that much of my mind on a good day, and so I feel the need to help preserve every last ounce. I do enjoy cocktails but I don’t HAVE to have them. I like them, nay, LOVE them, but I can live the rest of my life never having another one. I would be sad, yes, and would probably have to abstain from social media and watching the news, because without vodka, I wouldn’t be able to get through it, but I could do it. 

Simply put, it is rare that I turn my will over to something outside of myself; a need, a craving, a desire that I can not walk away from. I am strong. I am independent. I am in control of my mind and my thoughts. I have power over my own life. 

Therefore, I can say no to drugs, but what I can’t say “no” to is a box of Dunkin’Donuts. If I was trapped under a car with a tire crushing my leg and life draining from my body and someone walked by with a Dunkin Donuts box, I would STILL want one. 

Such a box made its way into our truck last night. I’m not sure how it got there. It probably had something to do with me saying, “Hey, you know what sounds good? Dunkin Donuts,” which is really wife-code for “I WANT DONUTS. NOW.” The Darling Husband is a smart man who is fluent in wife-speak, ergo, we hopped in the car and made the short trip to DD. 

Now, here’s the thing about donuts—I’ve never met a donut I didn’t like. It always surprises me when people say, “Oh, a jelly-filled? No, thank you. I don’t like that kind of donut.” These are the same people who will refuse to eat a certain flavor of ice cream. “Oh, you only have pistachio almond fudge? Ick. I hate that flavor.” 

I have to believe that these ARE the people abusing crack, because who turns their nose up at ANY donut or any ice cream. Sure, I have favorites, but that doesn’t mean I won’t eat a non-favorite. What kind of sick mind does that? If you know such people, you need to distance yourself. You don’t need that kind of negativity in your life. 

The DH pops into Dunkin and returns to the car with a box containing six donuts. A half-dozen donuts in a box is a bittersweet thing. You are thrilled that you have more than one to eat, but at the same time, you feel a little cheated that you don’t have a full dozen. It is irrational donut thinking, but when it comes to donuts, it’s hard to keep a level head.

He hands the box to me. “Here, babe. I got one for me and five for you.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that; you can have more than one.” Even as I say the words, I know I am lying, which leads me to my next donut point: 

I can’t eat just one. It can’t be done. Maybe, possibly, with a plain cake donut, and that’s only if a cup of good coffee isn’t around and the donut is a week old. But raised donuts? They are crack in cake form. 

I open the box to find the following:

One Blueberry cake donut 
Clearly this is the DH’s. Would I eat it? Please. Is the Pope Catholic? Does rain fall down? Of course I would. But in the glorious offerings on display at DD, a blueberry cake would be almost last on the list. I’d eat it because I felt sorry for it and nobody wanted it. It would be like a Rescue Donut.

Two Raised donuts with chocolate icing. Bingo. I love raised glazed donuts. I just like saying “raised glazed.” INDIE BAND NAME! I CALL IT! And when you take a raised glaze and add chocolate to it, you elevate it to another level completely. It’s like a raised glaze makeover. And then if you add sprinkles? Well, sprinkles are donut diamonds. Need I say more?

One jelly filled sugar donut
I’ll be honest; I was hoping for a powdered jelly filled. But in donut hindsight, I supposed the granulated sugar coating is best. You eat a powdered donut and the evidence is with you all day:

“Hey, you enjoy that donut?”
“How did you know I ate a donut?”
“You have powdered sugar on your shirt. And your pants. And in your hair.”
You eat a filled sugar donut, however, and NOBODY KNOWS. It’s stealthy. It leaves no trace. It’s the James Bond of filled donuts. It really is the better choice. 

And last in the box is my favorite donut. Two of them, actually. 

French Crullers. Cher bébé Jésus en manter (That’s “Dear Baby Jesus in a manger” in French, as a tribute to the cruller.) I adore crullers. They aren’t really a donut in the Dunkin sense of the word as a cruller is made from choux pastry, just like a cream puff. Okay, it’s basically a glazed unfilled cream puff. The outside is a wee bit crispy while the hollowed interior is gloriously soft and incredibly moist. And because they aren’t dense in any way, you can convince yourself that eating 2 or 3 of them at one sitting is the equivalent of eating only one of any other kind of donut. I’m not saying that’s accurate, but you can convince yourself. Trust me on this. I do it all the time. 

We both grab a donut, the DH his little blueberry cake and me, the cruller. By the time we pull out of the parking lot, my cruller is gone. The DH is not surprised. He’s not new here. 

We stop at Lowe’s on our way home. 

The DH turns to me: “You want to come in?” 
“No, that’s okay,”I say. “I’ll just wait for you.”
He glances at the donut box and then back at me. Like I said, he’s not a dumb man. 

By the time he has walked across the parking lot, I have the box open and the second cruller in my mouth. I have no choice. It’s not like I have any say in the matter. It’s a CRULLER, people. I try to savor it to make it last longer-chewing slowly to experience the taste and texture. You know, to become one with the cruller. But I am a woman possessed, and possessed women don’t take time to savor. 

The DH gets back into the car, takes one look at me and says, “You ate it, didn’t you.” 

Now, I’m not good with math, but we started with six donuts in that bittersweet half dozen box. He ate one; I ate two. This leaves three remaining. 

We get back home and eat dinner, all the while the Dunkin Donut box is staring at me from the kitchen table, beckoning me. The crullers are gone but those glazed raised are sending out some serious chocolate vibes. As we clear the table, I open the box and swipe one. 

“You’re going to eat ANOTHER one?”
“No,”I say indignantly, tearing the chocolate raised glaze in two and popping one half in my mouth. “I am only eating half. The other half I”ll save for later.”

I dry the dishes and then eat the other half. The DH just stares. 
“It’s later,” I explained. 

As I write this, there are only two more donuts left in that box. It’s stressing me out that they are still there. I figure I should just eat them both and get it over with. I mean, the longer they stay in that box, the staler they will get, and I work hard for my money and I hate to see my money wasted by allowing perfectly good donuts to go stale and isn’t waste a bad thing? I recycle for the planet; should I not also refuse to waste perfectly good donuts? In fact, I should actually be rewarded for my diligence and good donut stewardship. It’s BECAUSE I take care of that which I work for that I am going to eat these donuts. It’s because of freedom and the Revolutionary War and George Washington and the Bill of Rights and the power of the People to make their own choices and this includes the power of the people to EAT THE LAST TWO DONUTS IF THEY WANT TO!

“My donuts tis of thee
Sweet cakes of liberty 
Of thee I eat.
Land where the dough is fried
Land of the Patriots pride
From every moutainside
A Dunkin Donuts treat.”

(Note: In the time it took me to proof this, I ate the last two. Because…America.)


Behold…the box.
Sprinkles are the diamonds of the donut world

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