A (Fun) Love Story About Donuts

Brad Kieffer, RScP

One of the things we’re learning in Dr. James’ B.O.D.S. class is that losing weight doesn’t mean extreme limitation of certain types of food. Nor does it mean that it’s an act of self-sabotage if you dare to have a decadent treat. Rather, it means understanding the energy of what you consume. So if you want Ben & Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie ice cream, have a scoop or two; just don’t finish the entire container or stash six pints in your freezer. And be sure to balance it all out with foods from the other side of the energy spectrum.

In other words, we should always honor our body with whatever we eat – and have fun with every bite.

Which brings me to my special relationship with donuts and why I love them so much.

When I played little league baseball in fourth grade, we didn’t hit home runs. We hit donuts.

That’s because the owner of the fancy bakery on Park Street in my hometown of Alameda, California, gave a free donut to any homer-hitting kid whose name was in the box score in the weekly edition of Play Ball!, the local paper’s summer Little League roundup.

My next-door neighbor, the athletically gifted Kevin Dillon (no, not THAT Kevin Dillon) would get two or three free donuts each week. I, on the other hand, was more into hitting double-play grounders than “going yard,” as they say today.

But in the last week of the 1970 season, I smoked a line drive into left-center field. I’d already rounded third and was heading to home before the other team was even relaying the ball back to the infield.

All I could think about when I crossed home plate was, “Hot damn! Make mine chocolate glazed!”

So the next week, my mom took me to the bakery and I proudly showed the owner the box score. “Sorry, I stopped giving out free donuts last week,” he said from behind his bakery-white shirt, thick black glasses and mean-looking face. “You kids hit so many home runs, you almost put me out of business.”

“How much for a chocolate glazed?” I sheepishly asked.

“A quarter,” he snapped, already looking beyond me to the next customer. My heart sank because I knew we couldn’t afford it. I was like Charlie in Willy Wonka; his family couldn’t afford chocolate bars, and mine couldn’t afford chocolate glazed bakery donuts.

I politely declined. But my mom nudged me to keep facing Mr. Meanface, then reached into her purse and pulled out some change and told me to get whatever I wanted.

In the car ride home, the sugary sweetness of my chocolate glazed donut was heavenly. It was made just hours before, and was oh-so soft and fresh. As I took my first bite, I was probably like a mini version of Homer Simpson: “Mmm, dooonuuuts!” I offered my mom a bite, but she lied and said it wouldn’t taste good with the taste of toothpaste still in her mouth.

So on the infrequent occasion when I treat myself to a donut, I don’t taste a sugar bomb that’s self-sabotaging my diet or the cause for self-flagellation for breaking some nutrition rule. Instead, I remember finally being able to match home-run prowess with Kevin Dillon, strutting proudly through the bakery door, and Mr. Meanface behind the counter who had no problem crushing a 9-year-old’s donut dreams.

But mostly I taste the love of a mother who probably gave away the last few coins in her purse and let me have my chocolate glazed deliciousness all to myself, even though she had a sweet tooth of her own.

This is why I love donuts so much.