Today is donut day! Actually, every Friday is donut day.
I started a weekly ritual about six months ago. Every Friday, my entire team (apart from one or two people) rides the elevator from the 13th floor down to the lobby, and then we proceed to take a brisk 2 minute walk Mighty O: Seattle-based shop that serves vegan donuts. Once we arrive, I firmly grip the handle of the glass door, swinging it wide open and rushing the counter, where donut samples lies on a silver shiny platter. I lower my head towards the samples, my nose hovering half an inch above them, and inhale deeply, getting a sweet whiff of all sweet smells: chocolate, vanilla, french toast.
Following scarfing down a sample (sometimes two), I saunter over to the cashier and place my order: a french toast donut and a large almond milk chai. Occasionally, I order a different flavored donut, depending if Mighty O offers a seasonal donut that appeals to my senses. For example, a few weeks back, Mighty O concocted an ore flavored donut — it was damn nice. But normally, I stick to the french toast.
What can I say ? I’m a creature of habit.
This entire donut routine spawns from my affinity for donuts. It’s an emotional food. For me, donuts sends me back to my childhood. When I was a young boy, about seven or eight, my father would drive me to school, the little me sitting in the front seat, feet dangling off the edge, too short to reach the floor. On the way to school, my father would stop by a local donut shop with a drive through ordering; we rarely (if never) ate inside the actual store. As we pulled up to order, a cashier would slide open the drive through window, and my father would proceed with ordering: chocolate bar for him, me the sugar glaze with a side of milk.
At the end of the day, here it is: I love donuts.