Bakery reminiscence

takes me back.

On Saturdays, Grandpa would come wake us early and we'd pull on jackets over our pjs without saying a word. Sneaking out the front door of the lake house, we'd hop into the cherry-colored deck boat – before anyone with an anti-donut agenda could object – and zoom off onto the water after pastries and fresh morning air. We'd dangle just over the ledge at the boat's bow and giggle as our faces were sprayed and splashed with cool droplets. There was something about the way the wind whipped through my hair and about the way we were solitary on the water that evoked the strongest sense of adventure I've ever had. (To this day, nothing beats the feeling obtained from speeding around in that boat.)

We'd dock in front of the old Tom's Donuts shop, where we'd press our hands and faces up against the glass, determined to pick the perfect bunch and beguiled by the never-ending supply of sprinkles and glazes and cream fillings. My brother and I would then begin the maneuvering process between the legs of strangers until our box was full and satisfying.

There was nothing better.