Letters to Strangers

a salute to those who leave a mark

Dear Whoever Hired Me for a Job at Dippy Donuts the Summer I Turned Nineteen,

I’m glad you didn’t tell me why the position was open, that the last girl had been locked up in the bathroom while someone robbed the place. I would’ve been spooked, looked elsewhere for work, and missed out on so much fun.

I loved walking into the shop for another shift. There was an adorable little café out front with a U-shaped counter where I presided over my customers as if starring in a Broadway production of The Damsel in the Donut Shop.

There was a big kitchen in the back where I filled raised donuts with jelly by sliding the nozzle in just far enough -- too far and jelly oozed out the other end -- and applied just enough pressure to reward the customer for this choice without cracking the surface of the pastry. When I did dishes, I sang at the top of my lungs to whatever was on the radio (Michael Nesmith’s “Joanne” comes to mind), knowing the door chime would alert me to a customer walking in. One afternoon I sang too loudly and didn’t hear the chime. “How long have you been here?” I asked the guy waiting at the counter. “Long enough!” he said, beaming at me.

The managers encouraged us to eat as many donuts as we wanted. Can you imagine? We could eat ourselves into a sugar coma without fear of further punishment, and most employees (I was told) got so sick of everything a week into the job they swore it off. Not me. I kept discovering new treats to love. I never thought of myself as a cake donut gal, for example. But have you ever had a cake donut fresh from the fryer? Heaven! And crullers. What could possibly be the point? Oh, sure. They’re pretty. But they taste the same as other glazed donuts, right? Wrong. The difference is subtle, and addicting.

My boyfriend called me on slow nights from Wyoming, where he was laying track for a railroad and plotting our next rendezvous. As if a donut shop could get any sweeter!

My dreamy summer setup. My first love. My nineteen-year-old self. It’s a heaping helping of wistful, I tell you, whenever I drive by (or just imagine) that intersection.

xoxo

The Woman Who Hopes I Sold Enough Donuts to Make Up for What I Ate