It’s Not About the Donuts
How stopping at a donut shop can help stitch the broken parts of life
Waking up in the dark
The scent of clean, damp wood, usually emanating from a fence around someone’s yard, instantly takes me back to the paper route I helped my dad with when I was a kid. I dreaded waking up when it was still nighttime, and I knew most, if not all, of my friends were still sleeping. Winters were the worst. Iowa has brutal snowstorms; for months afterward, more snow accumulates, hardens, and thickens.
Plummeting temperatures are dangerous to any exposed skin, and parts of snowbanks would be smoothed over with a layer of ice, making shortcuts across yards impossible. Rainstorms in the spring weren’t much more fun, standing leaned over the open trunk of dad’s car, trying to keep the precious stacks of newspaper dry. We neatly yet efficiently folded each into a trifold, slid them into plastic bags, and stacked them.
Big house dreams
We had several routes around town, and the apartment complexes went quickly and were warm in the winter, a quick jaunt up and down hallways. But the neighborhoods with what I used to think of as the “big” houses were where I fantasized. I’d dawdle there in the summer and create stories about the people who must’ve lived in those houses.
They were two stories, and I figured they must’ve had more than one bathroom, unlike ours. I was sure they all had central air conditioning, too, which I dreamed I’d have in my place one day.
A memorable treat
My stomach would start growling as the end of our final route neared on Sundays while I thought about the treat that awaited me for my hard work. Dad would drive us to Donut King, although Mister Donut was its name back then. We’d pull up to the familiar little brick building with large windows along much of the upper half, the structure no longer than six parking spaces.
Our early morning arrival promised warm treats. A hot, sweet dough smell would overtake us when we opened our car doors in the tiny lot, and on those quiet mornings after our deliveries, there were still few people up and about. Once inside, the donut scent and Lou, the owner’s voice, and the warmth of the little building would envelop us.
Sometimes I’d choose his famous marble donut, sometimes an angel (powdered with cream), and other times something else. But my favorite was the cinnamon roll with chocolate icing and crushed nuts sprinkled on top. Even my dad needed to use both of his meaty hands to hold the cinnamon roll monstrosity.
Nothing like it in the world
I’d left Iowa for 14 years, traveled the world, and during my years living overseas, and in various states across the U.S., I’d searched for donuts like Lou’s at Donut King to no avail. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I’d landed right back where I’d started.
During the years I’d worked as many jobs as my mom always had while I was growing up, we occasionally took a glorious day off from all our jobs. Mom and I would begin our day at Donut King, seated in plastic chairs, reading the morning paper, drinking from Styrofoam cups, and licking the remnants of airy donuts from our hands like small children.
We’d re-read the same yellowed cartoon strips that we’d seen taped to the walls for decades and smile knowingly at the retirees who sat at the counter, joking and playing cards there every day that Lou was open.
My son preferred donuts over a cake, and for his birthday every year, he specifically asked for Donut King donuts in lieu of a cake. He insisted. My middle daughter introduced all her friends to these lesser-known, unadvertised treats. Years later, my youngest daughter would sometimes bring a box of the delectable treats to various clubs at her school or debate team.
I’d bring them to work over the years and make sure I removed a favorite for myself before my coworkers left the box desolate. In the fall, we looked forward to the pumpkin ones. The day was suddenly memorable whenever we had Donut King, whether it was just a donut, two, or an entire box.
Some things change, and others never do
A few years back, the building was razed, and the lot sat empty, a gaping hole to all the love, community, camaraderie, and delectable treats Lou had brought to West Des Moines for generations. The landowners left it barren for years. Snow, leaves, and dust accumulated at different times of the year, and the sun beat down the rest.
Within a couple of years, Lou began selling his amazing donuts in two new locations. I moved to the other side of the country a year ago and visited this July due to a family emergency.
On my last morning in town, just hours before my flight out, I drove to one of the places where Lou now sells his donuts. Donut King donuts are essential to any stop in my hometown, even an unexpected visit. Critical life-changing events and appointments filled my days.
I hadn’t planned to be there. Every day we were so busy that we were exhausted by the end of each. We had made it to some of our favorite restaurants, too. But I couldn’t fathom leaving town without a box of those donuts.
My kids each told me the night before what kind they wanted without pause. Although the donuts were no longer in the location I knew so well, and even though I stood alone while I ordered them, thousands of memories and feelings returned to me. I was comforted. I felt at home. I knew everything was going to be okay.