Donuts are part of the magic that makes life so sweet. I founded the Level 3 Friday Donut Club in 2004 and ran it until my departure in 2015. It had a three year run at Windstream and is now virtual, but at its peak, we had a rotation of 50+ folks who brought donuts every Friday. We had three simple rules: (1) five dozen (2) boutique shop donuts (3) by 8:00 am. This blog memorializes these e-mails to share my thoughts (and, once upon a time, announce the donut arrival). Have a happy Friday!
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May Arbor Guide Your Donut Choice
Our building remodeling project has delivered a new
“feature”: the parking garage elevator button configuration. Seated deep within
a hole, it reminds me of the Flash Gordon rite
of initiation into manhood. You know, that hollow log where young men must
choose a hole to put their hand into (and hope the green slug wood beast
doesn’t sting their hand). Even though I know this test does not involve the
potential for a maddening death, there is some primal fear that gives me some
pause every time I have to push the dreaded button. In a way, it makes sense.
In nature, you don’t want to put your hand into the den of a burrowing
creature. Whether it be a bear or a badger; a snake, a spider or a scorpion,
the resulting encounter is unlikely to go well for you. So we are
conditioned to be weary. I wonder if the design is intentional. Personally, I
think they should make this a permanent fixture –and build on it with some
additional sensory feedback. Perhaps some dangling nylon strings between you
and the button so something rubs against your hand while attempting to find the
knob. A minor electric shock when you push the switch? A motion-activated honey
badger growl?? So many possibilities come to mind. Fortunately, donuts don’t
come in long narrow tubes, so grabbing one is a lot less stressful. There are a
dozen Holy Donuts here ready to be consumed, so come reward yourself for
braving the elevator call. You’ve earned it!
By the way, if you’re looking for some adventure, I am
looking for four brave volunteers who are willing to bring a dozen donuts into
the office. Let me know if you are up to the challenge.
Friends, Happy new year (and, technically, still Friday). As many of you know, my household has a peculiar way of ringing-in the new year. We build effigies representing the old year and burn them at midnight. This year, although we made the tough call of canceling the accompanying annual party, I felt it was important to go ahead with the burning. The theme, of course, was CoVid. My kids and I developed a dozen mutations of the virus and staged them in our backyard. Then, at a quarter ‘till midnight, we proceeded to read the old year’s last will and testament (or, as might be expected for a year like this, an un-will and un-testament). Shortly thereafter they were summarily burned. We then proceeded to stay up way past my bedtime (which in part helps explain the unusual tardiness of my weekly note). In any event a couple of donuts and a day of rest have got me back to my old self. By the way, I’ve posted a public video of the Facebook live stream event on Facebook. Key markers on
Friends, The book Ready Player One sent me down memory lane this week. The journey was not triggered by the author’s excessive references to the 1980s, which border on obsessive. Rather, it was the name of the massive virtual reality simulation used by characters in this dystopian future to escape their grim surroundings: The OASIS. You see, that was also the name of my grandfather’s country estate, the setting where a disproportionate share of my treasured childhood memories were created. La Quinta Oasis was a bucolic old whitewashed house with a massive stone staircase, three foot thick adobe walls and wooden window shutters that, when closed at night, would submerge the residence in pitch darkness. With no running water, electricity, phone or indoor plumbing, the only modern convenience was the battery transistor radio on which my uncles would listen to “Chucho el Roto”, a radio soap opera. The Spanish fighting roosters crowed long before sunrise, making it difficult to fall back
Friends, Have you ever inadvertently fermented spaghetti sauce? Yeah, me neither… until yesterday, that is! Imagine my surprise when the half-full bottle, sitting in the fridge from time immemorial, made a sound akin to opening a beer bottle, instantly filling the glass container with a hazy smoke. As the carbonation dissipated, I grabbed a spoon to conduct the obligatory taste test. How was it? I’m glad you asked! Let’s just say chunky carbonated tomato beer is not my thing (although I must admit that if I had been expecting it, my reaction might have been a little more… composed). Now, if you forgo the fermentation and switch the tomato paste with spicy salsa… that might be the next million dollar idea! Sparkling sriracha anyone? How about Carbonated Cholula? Bubbly Habanero? Fizzy Jalapeño?? I could go on, but I have a feeling Gassy Guac might not fly off the shelves. Now, if only I could stumble on a way to improve donuts. Carbonated Jelly filling… yeah, maybe not. I think I’ll