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Holy pastry | page 1, 2
We took our place in line, which stretched around the shop and into the parking lot. The atmosphere was oddly, unexpectedly convivial. People huddled cheerfully in the darkness, sharing intimacies with absolute strangers, as people will when pressed together by extraordinary events. Soon we, too, found ourselves chatting with fellow travelers on this inexplicable high-calorie hajj: How we had heard about Krispy Kreme; how otherwise thinking people could come to be found so far from home, at midnight on a Saturday, standing in the cold and waiting for doughnuts; what we might order if we ever got inside. Some of my fellow pilgrims anticipated the flavors of their salvation: chocolate with sprinkles; powdered sugar; old fashioned. PDG demonstrated her gnosis of the subtleties of devotion: "Oh, no, you guys -- you only want to get the glazed, yeast doughnuts, the ones they make fresh all night long." She gave them a look of expert conviction. "The ones that go straight out of the oil, through the syrup and into your mouth," she testified, acting it out with hula hands. The rest were dumbfounded, but convinced. PDG has that effect on people. This sparked a discussion of the completely automated doughnut assembly line at every Krispy Kreme shop, displayed prominently behind a wall of glass. "It's true!" one believer gushed. "You can see them made! All the way from batter to glaze -- never take your eyes off 'em." Part of the experience, we learned, would be our slow progress past the mechanism as the line approached the cash register. This piqued my curiosity, and clarified the moment somewhat. Here, at least, was some small thing to be genuinely excited about: Doughnut ontogeny. Another hour in line, and I knew it was true about the doughnut machine. There was something implausibly satisfying about peering through the glass at the languid, inexorable progress of legions of doughnuts in their journey from extrusion to maturity. It was hypnotic; the intricate workings of the device induced fanciful reveries of metaphor. Soon I found myself attributing profound symbolic significance to this pastry passion play, as if I were witnessing the mysteries of some obscure, deep-fried Tibetan bardo: I begin to understand. This excursion was never about doughnuts; we have come to the temple, where the mysteries of creation have been laid bare. Doughnut fate, finally, is the same as ours: We will be placed in a box, there will be a final reckoning, a bell will ring and we will be shoved across the counter into the unknown. Make mine glazed, please. Fresh ones.
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