Friday, January 28, 2011

Bite sized powder donuts, you are the devil's work.

A few weeks ago, I found something beyond disgusting baked into a loaf of bread. I am not even going to show you the photo, because it was just so nasty.

Oh,  okay. If you insist.

Okay, so I guess it was technically two somethings.

Regardless, it wasn't bread. And it didn't belong on my plate, I know that for sure.

So I wrapped the offending loaf, marched right down to the store, and filled out an "incident report". Incident, indeed. After everything had been filled out and signed, and my information duly noted, they handed me a copy of the form, and - inexplicably - the loaf of bread, and told me someone would be in touch in the next 48 hours, and that they would want to analyze "the findings".

For a few weeks, I heard nothing. But "Maui time" is an actual observed phenomenon. You can just expect everything to take longer here. So I didn't panic. I also didn't throw away the evidence. No, it stayed in the far reaches of my refrigerator, waiting for the call.

Which finally came last week. Actually, a frantic series of calls came, 3 in a row. One from corporate, one from the state supplier, and one from the local bakery. Boy, did they want to see my bread.

I mean really.....who can blame them.
So I dutifully drove down to the local bakery and dropped off the bag with the remains of the contaminated loaf to be tested and inspected, and a zip lock bag with the items seen in the above photo. In return, they gave me new bread (which I accepted reluctantly) and a 2 pound bucket of powdered mini donuts (which I accepted with a mixture of reluctance and glee).

And here we are. Just me and my donuts.

For the record, the only thing worse to keep in your house then a box of mini-donuts covered in powdered sugar, is TWO POUNDS of mini donuts covered in powdered sugar. I have been eating them surreptitiously, a few at a time, when the kids aren't looking. I mean, I don't want them to go to waste. And as far as I am concerned,  a stale donut is a crime.

Last night I climbed into bed, licking the powdered sugar from the corner of my mouth, and snuggled up against my husband, who was already in bed.

"Mmmm. The only way this could be better is if I were eating mini donuts at the same time."

"Uh, so you want to incorporate mini donuts into our bedroom?"

"I guess not. Too messy. But you know what I really want? I really want a mini donut machine. I want to make mini donuts. I think it should be my life's work."

" want to get one of those machines, and set up a stand outside KMart or something?"

"What? No! I don't want to sell them - I want to eat them! I want to EAT mini donuts like it's my job. I don't want to profit from something so perfect and beautiful."

"Well, I don't know if you could call them perfect and beautiful..."

"Yes, yes you can. There is nothing more perfect than hot, fresh mini donuts in a paper bag, covered in powdered sugar. A thing of beauty."

"The bag absorbs all of the bad grease, you know." Sam informed me solemnly. "All that's left is the donut-y goodness. But I would prefer cinnamon on mine."

"Well, okay" I was feeling agreeable, now that my dream was becoming a reality.

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