When I think of the spelling of those magical round fried dough like creations with a hole in the middle, I don’t think of “doughnuts.” Instead, I think of “donuts,” which according to Merriam Webster, is the “less common spelling” of the term.
While I understand that “doughnuts” may be the “more correct” spelling — because after all “doughnuts” are made of “dough” — I just have trouble accepting the fact that “doughnut” is the “more common spelling.”
For all the “doughnut” spelling purists, maybe I can be forgiven for not understanding the language. I was born in the late 1970’s, so the only “doughnut” shop I knew about growing up was ultimately Dunkin’ Donuts.
And then later, in New York, I remember places like Alpha Donut, D-Lite Donuts, and of course, the one and only, the creator of the topnotch triple threat Plain-Powder-Cinnamon Softee Donuts, Entenmann’s Donuts. There was also this place right off Queensboro Plaza subway station, and I am convinced their name had Donut in it.
This is far from any scientific study, but I’ve noticed that many of the nouveau places — you know, the kind where everything is handcrafted, artisanal, and most importantly, grossly overpriced — generally use the Doughnut spelling. See Doughnut Plant.
I prefer “Donut” shops, as opposed to “Doughnut” shops. I don’t want the menu printed in handwritten colored chalk. I don’t want my coffee in a big ceramic mug with a foam heart on top. I don’t want 67 different varieties of donuts to choose from. I don’t want cozy sofas to sit on, or I Heart Radio playing in the background. I don’t want a place that accepts credit cards. I don’t want a cloth napkin served with my donuts. And I definitely don’t want my donut served on a plate.
I EAT MY DONUTS IN A NONDESCRIPT BROWN PAPER BAG WHILE I’M WALKING AND USE MY SLEEVE AS A NAPKIN.
Keep your damn Doughnuts, you Doughnut People.
There are electric eels in my bathtub.
I’m kind of glad I left New York City when I did. At least that’s what I tell myself.
When people ask me whether I miss New York City, I invariably say, “There’s less noise and fewer people.”
The metro is clean. I still don’t know how much a ride costs. I don’t have to walk everywhere I go if I don’t want to. I can get in my busted Prius with its faded magnets and bumper stickers and drive so I can buy some useless shit to put in my trunk.
No more pushing or pulling those busted wire carts down the sidewalk.
I still crave pizza and bagels. A good bagel shop is one that knows how to properly make pumpernickel.
They have this pizza called “New Haven Style.” I don’t know how to describe it really. It’s not thin, foldable, or oily. It’s not going to satisfy that part of the taste buds that are also reserved for fried chicken or donuts.
They put salad on the pizza.
There were always people in New York. There was always something, and you knew if you waited long enough, or traveled far enough, something was going to go down.
I think I’ve photographed the same tree about fifty times.
It could also be I’m just going old.
Bear with me as I figure some things out.
From the Inside
Take everything from the inside
and throw it all away
I swear for the last time
I won’t trust myself with you
I can’t remember the last time there were three little birds, each by my doorstep. I sometimes see one bird or two birds, but never just three.
A couple of days ago it was March. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt after weeks of wearing sweaters. Now it’s October, and I’m wearing a sweater after weeks of wearing long-sleeved shirts.
I’m not going to start some feelgood cliche story you see on elitedaily or buzzfeed or diply or one of those click bait ads on your facebook feed that totally slows down your phone.
But I will say that I’m thinking about writing a list of how things have changed this year. So far I have more notebooks than I have words. Yesterday I went to the CVS. I walked down the stationary aisle and looked at the notebooks, some even with the gregg ruled paper, and the pencils and pens.