There's a hole in my heart...

For every one there is a different catalyst for a grin. A cold frosty beer? Steve Martins' happy feet. Watching Martha Stewart go to jail. In my experience, there is one thing that can excite and stimulate just about everyone. Young, old, rich, poor. It matters not who you are, it will beckon, taunt, tease in the most benign way, luring you in with a sweet seduction. It's appeal is universal. If it were a character in literature, without doubt, it would be the siren call of the Odyssey. Homer would eagerly agree.

'Tis the doughnut of which I speak. Mmmmmmmm, doughnuts.

That familiar, comforting ring of decadence. Like a pearl within a pink cardboard box, it can alight the flame of jealousy. You guard your favorites like Pentagon secrets. You make a mental listing of tasting order, some saving their favorite for last, others diving right in. Leggo my Eggo? Leggo my Boston Creme! How cruel of you to take my crueller! Hands off my Long John....
Cake or raised, it matters not. Decorum surrenders to sticky fingers, powdered sugar smears, maple bar breath. We lose ourselves in that moment when we spy that perfectly round, supple, fluffy mound of pastry, slathered in confectioner's sugar, oozing globs of lemon custard or raspberry preserves. We gingerly raise it out of the box, examine it's form like the statue of David, bring it to our quivering lips, and softly bite down. An explosion of creamy pudding fills the mouth. You swallow, wiping the powder from your happy, happy lips with the back of your hand. You pull back and re-examine your fried pocket of culinary bliss, inhale deeply, and sigh the sigh of one who has reached nirvana.

The office meeting. You don't want to be there. It's early. You'll be bored. You shuffle in, grimmacing at the prospect of an hour of endless shop-talk. Then you spy it. The ubiquitous cardboard box. A lighthouse guiding you through. Has anyone else seen them? Quickly and with stealth you make your way, flip the top over and inventory the contents. Like the glow from the Ark of the Covenant, it catches your eye. The rare and elusive cherry-chip glazed. Survival instincts take over. No one is going to beat you to your prize. Scanning the room quickly, you hunch over, Nixon-style, and sweep the manna onto a cocktail napkin. Holding it close to your bosom, like a suckling newborn, you skulk over to your seat. For that brief moment your affair overtakes any emotion or dread you had about your meeting. It brings a smile to your face and for a minute or two, all is right with the world.

There are those who claim they don't much care for doughnuts. But ask them if they had to eat one, they will, without hesitation, name a favorite. There is nothing offensive about the doughnut, nothing sinister. A doughnut has no hidden agenda. Cut a doughnut in half and you get two smiles. Doughnuts are happiness incarnate, a spring board to feelings of contentment and child-like glee. Find a man who won't eat a doughnut and you have found a man without a soul.

So the next time you are tediously selecting your perfect dozen, take a moment and thank the baker, for he is, truly, the bearer of good tidings and the architect of true bliss.

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