Regular Life

It’s possible I started Saturday by making an offensive remark.

I got up with Ben, played and read books with him, made him some scrambled eggs and toast (for me, too). Nothing unusual. We do that a lot on weekend mornings while his mother sleeps in a little bit. Somehow we never squeeze in a day like that for me, but I don’t like sleeping away my free time, so it isn’t an issue. I want to be fully conscious of the fact that I’m not in my cubicle at work, as anyone who has read this post knows. Plus, it’s my only opportunity to spend time with “morning Ben” instead of “last 2.5 hours before his bedtime Ben.” Not that the latter is bad, you understand. Just more unpredictable.

I woke Shannon and gave her a couple of snoozes before she rose to watch Ben for me. It was about Sesame Street time for Ben, so she got up to a boy in a Big Bird-induced coma. Meanwhile, I was on a mission.

Get doughnuts (and, still ubeknownst to me, stick my foot in my mouth).

Doughnuts are a special treat that we get only once or twice a month, and I was off to the locally-owned doughnut shop in a small strip mall just down the street. Besides Sonic, it’s the only food establishment within four miles of our house, so it’s a wonder we’re not there far more often. The huge letters above the front door read, and I’m not making this up — DONUTS. Nothing more, nothing less. Small decals on the window panes spell out “Fresh Brewed Coffee,” and just below it “100% vegetable oil.” I don’t think the two are related, but I didn’t ask.

Before I walked in, I noticed a shop next door. It was labeled, simply, “Taekwondo.” I saw very small children, I’m guessing maybe not yet five years old, mimicking an Asian instructor’s moves. Their parents sat in a row of chairs along the back wall, some watching absently, some keeping their toddlers from joining in the action. The thought of having more than one child flitted through my head. We’re not there yet, but we’re leaning that direction, and I’m sure we could be in those same chairs in a few years.

I noticed on entering DONUTS that the coffee pots were empty and two young Asian women stood behind the counter. There were a couple of people in front of me in line, so I waited for a lull in the ordering to ask if any decaf was ready. First Asian Woman muttered something in what could have been Chinese or Japanese, or something else that my ignorance keeps secret from me. All I could extract was a word that resembled “decaf,” so I was fairly certain they were speaking in a tongue created when people knew only the fully leaded version of the brown beverage.

Second Asian Woman scurried out to start brewing. Somehow coffee’s always better when someone else makes it, whether it’s my dad or a perfect stranger.

My turn at the counter. I asked Second Asian Woman if they had white filling for doughnuts — not the custard style, but just a plain, white filling. She stammered a bit, said a few words in another language, and then looked to First Asian Woman. Her command of the English language was a bit stronger, but she struggled a bit.

“You mean the white icing?” First Asian Woman asked.

“Yes, that’s it. That’s what my wife likes,” I said.

“We have the white icing, but no, ummm…” She held out one hand in the shape of a “C” and then thrust the other toward it, palm flat.

“Injector,” said a customer. He seemed in a hurry to pay and leave.

“Yes. No injector,” First Asian Woman said.

I looked back to Second Asian Woman. “Okay, I’ll have three plain glazed, one chocolate glazed, and…” I pointed at a sweet pinwheel confection in the case. “One of these crullers with the cinnamon on it.”

“This one?” she asked, holding up a chocolate-iced cruller.

“No, the one here with cinnamon.” I pointed again, by now fairly certain that my words were doing nothing.

She held up the right one that time and put it and my other doughnuts in small, white paper bags. Everything was fine, and I was about to complete the transaction and go home to my waiting family. As I handed her the money, however, some part of my brain decided to add more talking, then stir.

“So, is the Taekwondo place next door run by the same family as here?”

For the first time since I entered, Second Asian Woman seemed to understand my every word. As she handed me the bags, she said, “No,” and then maintained her smile while muttering things that sounded Chinese to me. The only words I’m pretty sure I understood were, “different country.”

My brain’s translation: No, idiot, and not only that, but he’s from a different country and has a weird smell about him. You think me or my sister would marry such a stinky man? Take your doughnuts and go.

“Oh, I see,” I said, rather glad that she had not thrown the bags at me.

When I got home, the plain glazed were still hot, so all the frying oil offered little resistance as we bit into the sweetness (in the kitchen where Ben could not see us as he watched Sesame Street — was that mean?).

UPDATE : See my continued quest for this elusive doughnut.

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