I awoke in St.Cloud, Minnesota to darkness. The darkness of my inner eyelids and the blackout blinds of the Homewood Suites (beds so comfortable you don't have to drink yourself to sleep, but you still can). This is a very special time for me. Those first few moments in the morning, unclear of what is happening and what has happened. The adventure of waiting to see what your senses will tell you about the mistakes you haven't lived long enough to regret yet. This is as close to white water rafting as I will ever come in the adventure department.
What will hit first? Strangely enough, this time it is touch. A rarity. More often than not it is taste that upsets me, or smell that unnerves me. Touch, particularly this touch, does not instill confidence. The touch being my tongue on the roof of my mouth. It felt furry, more so than usual. This morning it felt like somewhere between a marmot and a sea otter. Truly a fine pelt that would be admired in the animal kingdom. The kind of thing that ancient fur trappers would have stabbed each other over. However, inside my mouth, it was unwelcome.
More unfortunate is the realization that I am out of shaving cream, the last remnants being used by my friends to shave my eye brows and forearms the night before. Instead I will have to be satisfied with parting my tongue hair on the left until I can get my hands on some Nair.
Next was taste. The taste of smoke lingering like a relative that doesn't get the hint after Thanksgiving Dinner. The fact that I don't smoke is an afterthought. Distinct flavors of Cadmium, Arsenic and Ammonia were common enough on my palate (before bed I like to check the fire alarm batteries with my tongue, check to make sure the rat poison is fresh and that my glass cleaner has been properly diluted. To do anything less is to show contempt for firemen and fire safety. To spit on the graves of the millions that died in the Bubonic Plague. To forget all that Mr. Clean has done for this country). However, the Nicotine was unwelcomed. How had it gotten there?
There wasn't enough time to dwell on this as the smell hit me. The aroma of last night's meal wafts from the floor beside the bed.
Sight kicks in, much to my chagrin? What was I looking at? What had I eaten?
A small bit of pink plastic? Was that the skewer from last night's amuse bouche? Had I eaten it all? As I recall, it was a delightful way to start the meal. A fried gruyere cheese cube skewered and set over a shot glass filled with an orange herb vinaigrette dipping sauce. Simple and pleasant.
Something seared? Ah yes, seared rabbit with Parmesan profiteroles. No, that wasn't last night. I ate that weeks ago. It was wet-aged beef tenderloin with truffle oil and a side of frites. Delicious. A worthy Death Row meal.
Is that a jalapeno seed? It was jalapeno sorbet... when was that? What course? While I can't remember, I do remember laughing incessantly over what I had opted to call "Cold Spice". Now, in the acrid air of morning, or noon as it were, I can't for the life of me remember what was so funny about it.
It was a good night, for eating I mean. Delicious, unexpected nuances of flavor and presentation at a place that I have no interest in reviewing. It was all in the past. Besides, how many times do you need to read about some hunyuk from Minnesota getting an exclusive plating menu at a Michelin star winning chef? Right here, right now, I need sugar and fat. And I need it now.
There was a time that this was an easy request. In the glorious pre-Atkins era of carbohydrate overindulgence there were actually places that a person could drive-thru to get a twelves pack of light, tender mouthfuls of glazed mana from heaven. Now, thanks to the good science of Dr. Robert Atkins (the realization that the body needs carbohyrdates to create energy and in the absence of said energy source the body will convert fat into energy) and the overzealous nature of The Oprah, our nation has become terrified of something as basic and glorious as The Krispy Kreme Donut.
From the bakery cases in gas stations, Krispy Kreme soared to the pinnacles of consumerism, getting their own stores with take-out windows and nothing even resembling a low-fat menu, getting shout-outs in movies, being a choice snack for the decerning tastes of college Ultimate Frisbee teams the nation-wide.
Then, when people decided that their values had changed and that it was far more healthy to eat bacon six times a day than to have a single apple, the ambrosia was black listed. It is good to see where people are willing to draw the line when it comes to health.
Now, back to the bakery cases from whence they came. Near gone, but far from forgotten Krispy Kreme is not only a fond memory of hearty Midwestern folks, but it is an institution and the perfect example of American excess, I mean, The American Dream. The idea that a poor immigrant can come to this country with no linguistic skills and only a hearty work ethic, work for 70 years in abhorrent conditions and ungodly hours so that their children and their children's children can grow up to be morbidly obese... wait, that can't be right, but it sounds like what happened.
I've gone this entire article without swearing. F***!
What the hell was I talking about?
... oh yeah. I like Krispy Kreme Donuts. So I got up, put on my swimsuit as it is my only unsoiled pair of pants and went to the gas station. I ate two. They were really really really... good.
Next Up: Something about pizza, and this time I mean it
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