Like father, like son: the curse
of the Krispy Kremes

By JIMMY PACK

When I was a child, I used to hate food shopping. Sitting in the cold steel of a shopping carriage, trapped like a mental patient, was torture. Add to that the piped-in Muzak and strangers walking up to me saying, “Your hair is so blonde!” or “What pretty blue eyes you have,” followed by a pinch on the cheek or a rustle of my hair, and I might as well have been in the Please Touch Museum as an exhibit.

And, GOD!, all those cereal boxes with the cool toys like diving submarines, puppets or watches that I could never have ‘cause my dad knew I hated every cereal that wasn’t Alpha Bits or Frosted Flakes. And if he spent the $2 on the cereal, it would sit under the counter for three months only to be eaten by him at the kitchen sink on a Sunday morning—the whole box gone and his appetite ruined for the day.

And it was like that with all the food I asked for and then found out I didn’t like. My poor dad was a garbage disposal for all of us; if we didn’t like it, he’d eat it because he could not bear to throw it out. But I guess that was to be expected from a guy whose parents routinely recounted their experiences during The Great Depression.

But when I started going to college and lived on my own, the 24-Hour Stop and Shop up the street became a haven of safety, of comfort—a place to satisfy my late-night cravings for pizza rolls and bologna sandwiches. Now I’m not sure how, but it happened. I became a carbon copy of my father, and like my father, I find I just can’t waste food as I did when I was younger.

I discovered this recently with a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I’ve been hearing about these doughnuts for three years, well before they were even opened sold in this area. The legend of these doughnuts slowly crept north, past the Mason-Dixon Line.  I heard they had a sugar glaze that would put you in a pleasing coma.

One day, while wandering the Genuardi’s in Flourtown, I came to a display; there they were, boxes of Krispy Kremes displayed in a holy green, red and white pyramid. I picked one up and looked through the cellophane window—glazed donuts that looked like manna, nectar of the Gods.

I tucked them under my arm and ran to the registers, forgetting what I had originally intended to buy, and took the doughnuts home as though I’d just raided Fort Knox. Walking into the kitchen, I placed the box on the table and poured a glass of milk. I slowly pried open the box so as not to tear the seal. I wanted the box perfect for resealing, and in case the Smithsonian Institution wanted to keep the packaging of these prized, glorious snacks.

I gently picked up the Krispy Kreme. wiped the bit of drool that had found its way to my lips and took a bite. It was awful, like a mutated ball of confectioner’s sugar. I tried taking another bite, but I couldn’t swallow. I put the doughnut back on the box and closed it. What was I going to do? I spent four bucks on the damn box, so I just couldn’t throw them away. I waited for my roommate to come home and offered him one. He took a bite and threw the doughnut away. One down, five to go.

They sat on the counter for over a month; no mold, they barely even got hard. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, and I’m not one for poisoning wildlife with hazardous substances.  I had to come up with alternative plans for the doughnuts; I paid for ‘em, they’re mine!

I tried using one as a pencil cozy. I made action figures with them. I even used them as fly traps. And now they still sit, on my counter, hard as bricks. My dad has literally been cloned. If anyone knows how to rid me of this ridiculous curse, please call the witchdoctor. Until then I’m stuck with boxes of lousy Krispy Kremes and other expired junk food filling up my cabinets. I’m running out of room. If you happen to have a really large apartment available for low rent, would you please let me know? And is it OK if I pay part of the rent in expired food coupons?