Inked! A bold vision and simple plan to eating ecstasy

Life is hard, a Krispy Kreme doughnut is not.

In fact, as I ate my fourth doughnut of the day — my fifth in two days — I was almost orgasmic with the pillowy perfection of this simple circle of fried dough.

That’s the kind of simplicity I want in my life every day; unfettered with creams or fruity fillings, untainted by sprinkles or nuts. Fresh. Clean. Pure carbohydrate overload with nothing redeeming or useful in those 190 empty, mind-numbing, soul-satisfying calories.

I’ve heard it said many times, my friends, and I’m here to attest Krispy Kremes are not overrated, not when they’re fresh from their source. Those boxes schoolkids around here try to peddle for fundraisers are bunk; I mean, would you expect someone to eat a filet mignon that has been cooked two days previous and nuked to a rubbery, gray blob of the unrecognizable animal matter?


Need I even answer that question? Those Krispy Kremes we buy to send our friend’s brat to church camp or to outfit her class with new laptops have been sitting around for days before you ever get at them, the glaze decomposing into a gooey slime congealing on the bottom of the box.

No, that’s not a Krispy Kreme, not one I’m going to waste your time writing about, anyway. I’m talking about one where the glaze is still crisp, has integrity, enough fortitude and stamina to deal with your bite and not go all soft and helpless on you. The ideal Krispy Kreme doughnut is not going to end up dripping down your chin; the worst you’re going to get is gravity snapping off an errant shard of sugary mortar and sending it onto your shirt or lap.

If any of the following has not made you want to eat a doughnut, or at least run to the fridge for something … anything … then we’re never going to be on the same wavelength, not socially, politically or morally.

I’m a food addict of the highest order, a high-fat and fat-arsed foodie who has learned to at least exercise to the point where I can successfully maintain my gluttony. I’m a lover of all things to eat, whether it be high-brow, somewhat healthy and expensive, or cheap, processed and pimple-inducing. I’m good with organic, free-range egg omelets with fresh spinach and artisanal cheeses (that’s what I had at a hotel buffet the other morning between a half-pound of bacon and three servings of Caprese salad), but I’m just as good with a Little Debbie snack cake and a Diet Dr Pepper (which is what I’d drink as I’m writing this). The point is, this palette does not discriminate, and my iron-lined stomach can handle it all.

One thing I’m learning, though, is my eating is a bit irresponsible, especially when I’m bringing along two small kids to this show, which can look a lot like feeding time at the zoo. That’s when they are instructed to keep all fingers and small plastic toys away from my mouth.

I always start thinking like this when I get back from a few days out of town, where much of the trip that was not occupied by specific tasks or business has been centered around where we’re going to eat, or what we’re going to eat, or even how much and how often. These are important things to consider during what amounts to food tourism. If The Wife and I always agree to share plates and eat small portions (of which I inevitably get most of it), then we can eat more often, thereby expanding the possibilities and dream that one day I will have successfully sampled everything I don’t have daily access to in the Valley.

It’s a bold vision, I know. But it’s a vision that can be realized, one to four Krispy Kremes at a time.