D is for DOUGHNUT

Getting read to enjoy a
few Krispy Kreme donuts.

Not a Dunkin Donut, which will do in a pinch. (My preferred there is a plain cake donut.) Not even a Krispy Kreme Donut, best enjoyed with hot coffee after an early winter’s morning drive to the mothership in Scranton.

No, I discovered on Memorial Day weekend that D is for a doughnut from the Fractured Prune in Ocean City, New Jersey. My favorite beach town has long been a doughnut haven. In the halcyon** days of my family’s younger years, we usually rented our bikes from a business that rewarded us with a free fresh donut and a free beverage when we returned the bikes. And I have salivated in the long lines stretching down the Boardwalk in front of Ove’s and Brown’s. I have watched donuts travel through a mysterious machine, be baptized in bubbling oil and then resurrected to golden brown life. And I have rejoiced.

So many varieties. So little money.

But on the holiday weekend I switched lines. At the Fractured Prune, each doughnut is custom created from myriad** choices to the customer’s specifications.

My mouth was not big enough. (Insert joke here.)
I had to use a knife and fork.

 I ordered a breakfast sandwich whose “bread” was French toast doughnuts. (I realize I have a subject-verb disagreement in the previous sentence, but there was nothing disagreeable about the sandwich.) I imagine the two doughnuts, eggs, bacon, and cheddar cheese added up to about a gazillion calories, but I didn’t care. I ate every crumb. And I rejoiced.

This picture is four years old. I recognize the mom.
I think the little boy grew into the very capable teen who waited on us.

**And you thought you’d never get to use your Vocabulary Workshop words!