The Donut Guy Blog

I have fond memories of eating donuts. That might sound like a silly statement, and I’m sure others haven’t put as much stock into the times they’ve snacked on sweet treats. But I’ve had so many donuts, in so many places, that most of them blur together. Still, I distinctly remember having donuts with my grandparents each week. I savored the delicious sweetness then, and as an adult, I now relish the memory even more.

It might seem odd to call eating a donut a canon event, but let me set the scene. I was a kid who spent a lot of time with his grandparents. They watched me regularly, and I went everywhere with them — car shows, funerals, and church events were just part of life. I was their co-pilot, and sometimes the one who actually knew the directions to where we were going. I’m sure they often wondered how to keep me occupied, or how to steer my endless chatter. Sometimes that meant a trip to McDonald’s or counting things as we drove. But often, it meant a stop at our local deli for a donut.

Being in an area without a regular bakery, our donuts were daily imports from Auburn, New York — from the Cameron Bakery. The style was classic, whether it was a chocolate-covered round or a fried apple fritter. A full case in the morning would be empty by midday. They were known far and wide across town, a sweet treat nobody could pass up.

I remember walking in with my grandfather, his demeanor much like mine today. He could talk to anyone. I’d sit there and marvel at how he remembered everything about everyone — their families, their stories, their triumphs and troubles. He’d order an apple fritter, then glance at me to see what I was getting that day.

Walking in with my grandmother wasn’t much different. Her sharp mind made her not only a great talker but also a great listener. As the village clerk, she knew so much about so many. Where my grandfather was a salesman, she was a public servant. Conversations about charities, helping folks in need, or cleaning out someone’s house after they’d passed were always on the menu. Her tastes in donuts varied, but she always ate them carefully — napkin in hand.

As I get older, I have a harder time recalling the details of our conversations. But certain things never fade: their smiles, their energy, the love they shared with me — and just how good those donuts were. That memory returns every time I take a bite. The taste washes over me, reminding me of some of the best parts of life, and of being the best I could be.

That’s why donuts are my comfort food. I’m sure I’m also addicted to the sugary goodness, but it’s more than that. Though my grandfather has been gone for many years, I still see his face with an apple fritter in hand. Bless her, my grandmother is 98 now, and I long to bring her a donut to share. It’s why I bring donuts to others — hoping to share a little of the comfort and warmth I feel every time I do.