NOT QUITE A SAINT

A True Saint

In 300 years, if you were to be named the patron saint of X, what would you like X to be? Places, activities, objects — all are fair game.


 

indian corn kitchen windowPatroness of survival maybe? Nah. There are a lot of survivors. I’m not so special.

No sainthood here. Nope, not me.

I might make a good cautionary tale. Not very sexy, but that’s as good as it’ll get if you choose to include me in the mix.

Everything else I do or care about? It seems to me there are far more — and better — candidates for patrons and patronesses.

Even amongst the shining lights of art, sports and technology, I cannot think of anyone who strikes me as a suitable candidate for sainthood, canonization, or deification. Not in the Christian or any other pantheon.

We are merely folks.

There’s no doubt in my mind — and I’ve rarely been so completely sure of anything — I’m no saint. No candidate for anything except being me. I am however, exceptionally good at being Marilyn. Nor have I aspired to anything higher.

SOMETHING TO GO WITH YOUR DOUGHNUTS, SIR?

Doughnuts are not good for me. Or you. We all know that. No matter how you slice and dice it, those yummy fresh-from-the-oven treats are nothing but fat, carbohydrates, and sugar, probably with a dollop of artificial flavoring. But gee golly whiz, there’s nothing like a couple of warm crullers with a freshly brewed cuppa joe on a frosty morning. Or, if you’re me, any morning.

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I love my morning coffee. Much as I complain about the problems of getting old and being poor, retirement has a few perks. The biggest and most obvious is not having to go to work, not having to put up with the idiocies of bosses who know less about the job than the newest intern and base their impossible demands on a spread sheet.

The other big perk is time. You don’t have to gulp your coffee in the car on the way to the office. Or drink horrible machine coffee in the office. You can brew your own, sit in a comfortable chair with the morning paper, a book, laptop or tablet and savor the experience.

Doughnuts are an extension of this top of the morning experience. As tasty as ever, you can enjoy them with your own or boughten coffee. Locally, the coffee and donuts emporium of choice has always been Dunkin Donuts. Unlike Starbucks whose “dark roasted beans” are a code for “burned coffee,” and whose donuts are clearly not fresh, Dunkin Donuts coffee is mm-mm good and the doughnuts are just out of the oven — at least until 3 in the afternoon.

A couple of times over the past year, in a fit of gustatory nostalgia, Garry picked up a small box of donuts from Dunkin’s to ramp up the quality of our morning coffee experience.

The first time I could barely contain my excitement. As I reached for a second forbidden but delicious doughnut, I discovered it was guarded by a militant-looking cockroach of considerable heft. One of the big ones who is obviously daring you to “bring it on.”

I took the whole box of donuts, roach and all, and dumped them in the trash. As far as I know, we don’t have roaches here. We have ants in season (like now, for example). Mosquitoes the size of sparrows and hungrier than sharks. Slugs and beetles of all kinds in the gardens and who knows what in the woods … but no cockroaches. So I fondly hoped this was an aberration. Surely our local Dunkin Donuts was not packaging cockroaches with the doughnuts? Tell me it ain’t so!

Mr. Coffee

When Garry asked what happened to the donuts, I made some lame excuse like having knocked them off the counter and the dogs getting to them. Garry is a brave man, but he has two phobias: snakes and cockroaches. Both knock the Semper Fi right out of him. I chose to spare him the trauma.

Operating under the optimistic assumption that Dunkin Donuts wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t include cockroaches with their mouth-watering confections, I encouraged him to pick up a second batch a few weeks later.

I ate a couple of doughnuts. Garry ate a couple of doughnuts. And standing in the box guarding the remaining Boston Creme and Honey Raised, was General Cockroach. I think he had an anti-aircraft weapon strapped to his carapace.

I carried the box and its occupant to the trash. This time, though, I told Garry. He needed to know lest he spontaneously stop and buy a box on the way back from wherever. After Garry stopped shivering and muttering “I hate those things …” we agreed we’d take a pass on future purchases from our local emporium. There are plenty of other doughnut shops in the area. In fact, the only shops our town has more than enough of are hairdressers and doughnut shops.

For some reason, we’ve lost our taste for doughnuts. I don’t think either of us has eaten one since. Odd, isn’t it?