Last Friday the urge for a maple bar from the Donut Parade overwhelmed any more measured reflection on how to start the day right with fruits and fiber. It would be a morning for some of the best carbs and sugar on the continent.
I gathered up the three kids in the house at the moment (my daughter, one of my twin sons, and his friend that we affectionately refer to as ‘not my son’) and headed from Hamilton and Illinois just north of Gonzaga to order a dozen maple bars and donuts and four glasses of milk. The milk is critical for true donut delight.
Yet another part of the Donut Parade perfection is the place. It is frozen in time (circa 1950) and every hard-to-reach corner is covered by a quarter century of fine fryer grease that should preserve it for all eternity. Our turquiose vinyl booth has a tear in the seat mended with duct tape. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Friday’s visit also reminded me of how much I love the old diner counter and line of chrome stools facing the kitchen. Invariably, the line is occupied by neighborhood regulars nursing a cup of coffee, reading the paper, and discussing the sad state of the world over a plate of the sacred maple bars.
I’m sure the faces at the counter change depending on when you come during the morning, but the stools are almost always filled and all their occupants appear to have been here before.
