With warm popover breath, she whispers in my ear:
“I knead this.”
And, just like that and just off a well-worn path in Tualatin and not far down the slope from the slim dual tracks of the Portland and Western Railroad, tracks that seemingly run to infinity yet never converge, I approach that humble Establishment of Baked Goods Wonderment, a bastion of Bliss in this crazy place we call “Earth.”
A place that calleth to us strong and hard to satisfy our oral-type Hopes and Desires.
Donutland.
Standing at the Threshold of That Place of the Dough appeals to our inner danish, especially to me, given my (recently-revealed) Scandinavian heritage. I gaze, with childlike wonder, upon the unending rack-after-rack of glazed Gems of Gluten as all the while I hear the rhythmical clickety clack” of the commuter train on the P&W tracks outside, a sound that resonates with all inside Donutland, for we all know our cabooses (post Donutation) will do better on the wider Swedish three foot tracks rather than standard gauge.
But, I digress.
‘I knead this.’
Her words still reverberate within me as I ask the Fine Gentleman behind the counter for “two of your best dozen.” The Fine Gentlemen smiles, most likely thinking the unsayable: when it comes to doughnut consumption: “we all need more training.”
‘I knead this.’
And the commuter train passes in a Doppler horn mourn as if it is the dream of Human Locomotion, it offers the possibility to our feeble selves of Rising Love amoungst mixers and wooden paddles. And yeast.
And dreams.
For we all must dream of liquid measure on this rainy Fair Fritter Friday (F.F.F.) when the World is ‘okay,’ and i grow anxious on the promise of butterfly kisses and a smear of sugar glaze that’ll linger on the skin of the curve of her nude hip, her summer tan all but faded now as if in a daydream, as the two of us go forth hand-in-hand to the Equinox and the March of Our Fall.
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