mattlaneydotcom

Doughnutmen of all countries unite!

— The Coconut Malassada 

A Dieselpunk Dream where every Friday, the neo-technical Machine “Maillard’s Meniacal Mayhemficato & Donut (sic) Maker” belches out perfect glazed rings of doughnutatery delight  in massive volume for the Wanting Masses. 

And the location of said Machine?

Betty’s Donutland, where I sit on the stool counterside, the Mayhemficato behind me. I sigh inwardly and think of Toledo and what could have been. 

“What’ll it be, mac?” asks a young uniformed woman on the other side of the red slick counter.

“No mac and cheese, honey. Just two eggs, sunnyside up. And sausage.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

She nods. “Comes with a donut. Which one do you want?”

I shake my head. “None for me, thanks.”

She stares at me in amazement. Then shrugs her lean young shoulders.  “Your funeral.” 

“Indeed.”

She notes my order. “Coming right up.”

Betty’s Donutland! Whose tagline is We Doughnut All For You!

And at Betty’s, the doughnuts from the Machine are served up hot and “Topless™” while porcelain mugs overflow with strong coffee (that only a loving mother makes for her hungover sons!) are freewheeled by friendly attractive staff to paying patrons all of whom watch in utter amazement the Operation of the Machine! 

And as we (well, at least those educated and erudite) all know from poetry: 

Doughnuts, oh the sweet memory of

Frame Friday mornings, a well met glove!

For the closest you’ll come to Heaven

Is a Bear Claw on your Long John’en!

Or something like that. 

Ever since the War, my own memory is suspect, especially when it comes to the timing of rhyming.

But not donuts. 

As my plate of eggs and sausages hits the counter in front of me and with a suddenness that borders on rudeness, the Mayhemficato begins emitting a non-rhythmical guttural pumping noise from somewhere in the belly of the Machine! All giving rise (wink, wink) to concerns from the staff that the Machine is somehow discombobulated or worse(!). 

Luckily for the establishment owner, I’m on scene at this high-end Donutarium and upon hearing the Machine in mid pump, realize what the issue is.

I rise from the stool and onto my feet, and spy Betty standing in front of the Mayhemficato. 

I approach.

Betty has a pissed off scowl across her otherwise stunning heart-shaped face.

She stands, apron taunt across her, but not too much taunt. Hands on her slender hips.

Beautiful? Check. 

Ring finger ringless? Check. 

Eyes that angels would fall into? Check.

Basically, she’s the embodiment of a Baker’s Dozen, if you know what mean. The kind of woman you’d willingly share your Long John with and maybe even do a Glazed Twist as well. 

Checkaroo.

She sees me coming. Stares. And not because she thinks I’m cute. 

“Madam,” I say. “I’m familiar with the workings of the Mayhemficato. My credentials.”

She yanks my credentials from me, scans them, and, without looking up, says flatly: “Maillard, eh? How’d you manage that?”

“It’s a long story that…”

“Make it short,” she interrupts.

I briefly articulate “the facts,” to wit:

• After a stint in the Army Flying Force (A.F.F.) retrofitting radial engines with diesel radial engines, I found my calling once when I was sentenced (I’d been naughty) to two-and-a-half weeks of K.P. The C.O. needed to make me “an example.”
• There in that filthy A.F.F. kitchen, my metamorphosis! Mostly because the joint was crawling with cockroaches. But I digress; the old cook showed me the “Majik of Doughnuts” written on ancient parchment paper. 
• I soon purchased an illicit worn leather-bound copy of The Coconut Malassada by Ube D. (which I later discovered is allegedly one of Kafka’s nom de plumes); I wept reading the last page, and I knew that my destiny was somehow linked to yeast, flour, and hot oil.
• At this time, I visioned-quested my Masterpiece, my Opus Magnum: “The Gin and Tonic Boston Cream Donut”. To fulfill this, I struck out in search of Maillard and his legendary Donut Machine with the hope of apprenticing. I traveled via steamer and aircraft to the Lost Horizon and, upon arrival, took the place in. Not exactly Shangrala, but more like Toledo, Ohio, met Maillard who took me under his tutelage in order for me to basically work for long hours… 

Betty holds up her hand. “Enough!”

At which point she asks me in a don’t bullshit me voice: “Can you fix it?. 

“Yes,” I say. “Name is ‘Inge’.”

“Get to work already!”

In anticlimactic fashion, I affect the repairs on the Mayhemficato (it WAS a discombobulation) and receive my compensation from Betty and all’s well that ends well.

Since that day, I’ve renamed my Opus Magnum to “The Gin and Tonic Toledo Cream Donut,” which is like a Boston Cream Donut only not named such. And Toledo was where I had my first kiss, her lips coated with sugar after downing a sugar donut. Also, Toledo because I had trademark infringement issues rising up (rheology humor)…

But THAT donut is still my un-fulfilled dream.

Like Betty.