It was 10 p.m. and my partner and I had ended up at the Colonial Donuts on Lakeshore in Oakland. Earlier, we had bad luck at two restaurants — their kitchens had closed, so we settled for a burrito. Left with a desire for something sweet, we were drawn to Colonial, that 24-hour beacon, where the only thing brighter than its hospital-grade lighting is a glass display advertising doughnuts of every kind: crullers, maple bars, jam-filled. Aside from the overnight staff, the only other soul in the place was a man trying his luck on a scratcher.
We ordered two glazed raised doughnuts. As the cashier handed them over, they asked, knowingly: “Just two?”
I felt heat emanating from the bag. I removed the doughnut and watched as the sugar glaze started to set, small cracks forming around the indentation of my thumb, which rested on the puffy yeasted dough like a memory foam mattress. The first bite was like sinking my teeth into a warm cloud. At that moment, I’d never understood Homer Simpson more…