Sometimes nothing is better than a Krispy Kreme

I am not a die-hard Krispy Kreme fan. The flashing "hot" neon sign has never held any special power over me. I drive pass the cheerful green roof every morning without a second glance. I am immune to the whiffs of buttery fried dough that occasionally blow through the streets.

I should know better than to write the above. I should know that there aren't too many things in life one can state in the absolute and be right, especially when it comes to cravings for sweet things. For instance, it's hard to be sure when driving down an empty road late at night, uncertain of how far or how treacherous the journey ahead would be, that a fluffy circle of sugary thing wouldn't seem as comforting as the safety blankie from childhood. (I've actually never had such a blankie, but I can imagine its power).

It's probably a good idea to use the drive through. It would be too cruel to tear oneself from the warm cocoon inside the car. Get the original glaze if you are a purest. Get the glazed blueberry if you want something different. Heck, get a dozen if you can't decide. Pull into an empty parking lot if that's easy. Park under a street lamp if you are worried about dropping crumbs or if you'd just like to see the way the glaze crack between bites. Eat the donut exactly the way you'd like. If that means tearing the poor thing into twenty little pieces and smushing each between the fingers before licking the digits clean, do it. (Okay, maybe that's just me. I have no shame in practicing my weirder than most nibbling. If one single gulp suits you, do that.) Feel the sweetness spread within your cheeks and coat your insides. Sign with satisfaction and maybe a little sadness when it is all gone. Have a sip of milk to chase everything down if you were wise and had the foresight to buy some. Now, drive on into the darkness with sweetness in your stomach and warmth in your heart for having just had an unexpected and, most likely, undeserved sweet moment all your own.