Sarx

ere’s the second “greatest hit” from the Early Years. More Garrison Keillor, more sap. THis time, I was hearing about the first opening of a KK in Manhattan. I’m thinking it was 1996 still. This one also got me emails from all over the place. And, in case your wondering, yes, in a couple of days I’ll post “that” essay as well – but we still have a few more “greatest hits” to get through in the next 7 days.

::Krisp Memories
by Huw Richardson

Sitting at my desk on 14 August, the radio played some kind of “adult contemporary” to which I wasn’t listening. I heard the DJs (Scott and Tod) hassling their co-host Naomi over the fact that she knew nothing of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. My God! I thought. What in the hell are they going on about Krispy Kreme doughnuts for? Then the truth came out. The King of Dixie Confections had opened a stand on the corner of 23rd Street and 8th Avenue in New York City. Sweet Mother of Mercy! I almost took a taxi at that moment. I called my mother in Columbus, Georgia. “Mom! They’ve opened a Krispy Kreme on 23rd and 8th!” She responded, “Get the phone number so I know where you are.”

I don’t know when it opened: my friend Jorge has known about it for a couple of months already. I could have killed him when I learned that and he hadn’t told me. But when do you expect Yankees to know anything about haute cuisine? At least he likes grits. My mouth watered all day in anticipation. I couldn’t go there right after work. I had to meet friends for dinner and cocktails. I thought Krispy Kreme for desert would be heavenly.

23rd and 8th is in the middle of Chelsea. Chelsea is as close to Gay DisneyLand as we get outside of San Francisco. The addition of Krispy Kreme makes it more of a DixieLand Theme. It is also across the street from a Cineplex Odeon, one of the largest multiplexes in the city. I entered the shop and was immediately confronted by the smell of sugar. Jorge turned to me and smiled, “I can smell the grease!” He said with a grin that only weight-conscious gym bunnies can muster when they look at us fat slobs.

“Shut up,” I said, my native drawl returning. “I’m here to recapture my childhood.” I turned towards the counter. Between me and Sweet Death were seventeen people from Atlanta. I could tell: they all had blonde bouffants, even the men. They were all dressed in those red polo shirts and matching shorts that scream NRRWT (Nouveau Riche Retired White Trash). They smiled, hearing my accent and parted before me like the Red Sea before the Chosen People: I was going to Beaula.

I politely ordered “Two Regular Glazed” from the girl behind the counter. When she handed me the bag, I shoved my nose right into the opening and inhaled deeply. Time stopped. Suddenly I was four again, standing with my grandmother at the counter in the Krispy Kreme, next to the Winn Dixie in Columbus. I’d been a good boy while we shopped and here was my reward. The doughnuts had been taken from the glazing tray just before they handed them to me. I could feel the hot of the oven in my hands. I didn’t care: they’d be plenty of cold ones when we got back to the house. These were hot. Special. Magic.

The girl behind the counter giggled. “You must be from the South.” I smiled back at her, it wasn’t her fault her parents were Yankees. “Yeah. I’m from Georgia. I bet you’re getting a lot of this, huh?” She didn’t respond, but bustled on in her New York way, to the next customer.

Jorge was laughing behind me. “Let’s go.” And out on to 23rd street we went. Then I took one out and bit into it. I close my eyes, remembering other parts of my past. On the other side of Highway 75 from Georgia Tech is the world’s largest drive-in: The Varsity. We’d go there after concerts and such for the bestest burgers and the greasiest fires on the planet and deep- fried apple pies with a Coke. From the front of the place you could see the very Co’Cola factory in question. It was a miracle, equal to the epiphantic discovery of a Krispy Kreme in Manhattan.

The doughnut was heavy. Don’t get me wrong. Krispy Kremes are not some lighter-than-air confection which melts in your mouth. No. These things stick to your tongue and your fingers. The group from Georgia hovered near the Subway Steps, the youngest child having misplaced his napkins and become stuck to the railing. I walked past them, remembering that I too had forgotten my napkins. I licked my fingers clean, savoring every sweetness and the on-coming buzz. All I needed now was a bowl of grits and gravy.

When Jorge interrupted my silence, I was surprised to find that my drawl had come back in full force. As I type this I keep thinking that there aren’t enough syllables in Yankee English to convey the joy of it all. I’m thinking in Georgian. Trust me.

We sometimes over-romanticize our childhoods. I know I’m doing it now. 30 plus years along, where childhood still seems like yesterday, I know it was a long time ago. (My Ex-friend Robb’s last words to me were “I bet you can see Middle Age from where you’re standing.”) We’ve and landed on the moon and done disco and Jimmy Carter since Grandma and I shopped at Columbus Square. I don’t even know if there was a Krispy Kreme there or if I made it up in my head.

I know that the South in the late sixties was a time of turbulent love/hate – much like the rest of the country. I know that my people still get bashed when they have the audacity to exit a bar holding hands in Columbus. Some others find time to terrorize blacks and hispanics from within the voting booths and gun shops of Atlanta. But last night, for about fifteen minutes, on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Twenty Third Street in Manhattan, I wished I was in Dixie. I did. I could hear the crickets on the Chattahoochee and feel the humidity (or was that New York). I was surrounded by spanish moss. I was four.