Nelson's Donuts

In the middle of a nondescript block of East McNeese Street in Lake Charles, LA, stands Nelson's Donuts. Nelson's is an institution. During my childhood, Tastee Donuts and Nelson's were the spots we frequented most; Tastee was good and its location was more convenient, but it never touched Nelson's. And while Tastee shuttered its drive-thru many years ago, Nelson's continues to thrive.

The sign is new, a slight update to the one I grew up looking out for as Mom, or later friends and I, drove towards the brick-red-roofed building. Gal pals and I spent many a post-slumber party morning tricking our fatigue with the sugar rush of a warm, freshly glazed dozen. Elia, Mom and I often went for an early weekend breakfast, and now, the boys insist that a trip to Nelson's be one of our first activities upon arriving in Lake Charles.

Nelson's is open seven days a week, from 5am to noon. As Tom and Jack were immersed in a spirited game of Chinese Checkers, Ol and I made the Nelson's run this morning. We arrived at 7:45, and, per the usual at that time, the drive-thru line snaked into the street (drivers not headed to Nelson's go around without complaint). We took the last lot spot, and Ol flew to the window, eager to place our order.

The smell of hot grease, yeasted dough and sugary glaze envelops you as you approach the counter. Even if you swear you're not hungry, you will find yourself ordering a donut or two for yourself and later regretting that you didn't get more. I made that rookie mistake this morning and have rued it ever since.

Jack had requested two strawberry-filleds, one cinnamon twist, some donut holes and a chocolate-glazed. Ol chose a chocolate-glazed bedecked with sprinkles, donut holes, a cinnamon twist and an eclair. We got a French Market (like a beignet) too, just because. Ol sucked down his cinnamon twist before we reached home, and I poached a bite of J's strawberry-filled and Tom's chocolate-glazed.

I have eaten many a donut all over America, including those from vaunted spots like Voodoo Doughnuts in Portland and Dough in Brooklyn. Those from Dough were magnificent, and yes, a Krispy Kreme is good when a fix must be sated. But there's something perfect about donuts from Nelson's. They don't try to be anything but delicious, consistently so, and they are. Nothing fancy, nothing silly, no soupçon or drizzle of anything you really didn't want anyway. They're just wonderful, and we're already looking forward to a big, messy, sugary box next time we're here.

Salad of bitter, bed of sweet

Today I continued to clean, this time my closet, unearthing more treasures and discarding two additional bags of memorial detritus. I mean really, who needs a Vine Line circa 1993 (the monthly newspaper for Cubs' fans)? Despite my fan-atic ardor for Ryne Sandberg, I no longer feel the need to dedicate closet space to Street & Smiths, Sports Illustrateds and so forth. Not to mention seemingly every Daily Northwestern published between 1994 and 1998. After many hours, it seemed a positive idea to leave the house, and so Tom and I went to Top Five, the new Chris Rock movie (how charming is Chris Rock, I ask you?! Good film overall. Not great but entertaining. Rosario Dawson was quite good.) while my parents and the boys went to Night at the Museum 3.

Once home, I made a delicious salad comprised of various bitter elements. These appeal to me greatly, but T lacks the bitter-enjoying gene and ate a minimum of this beauty.

Endive, radicchio, pomelo, blood orange, goat cheese and a shallot-white balsamic vinaigrette. I thought it was the cat's meow, especially when paired with fresh bread and leftover barbecue shrimp.

The boys wandered in, happy but totally gaga, and we hurried them up to bed. Dad, aka Poppy, had promised that tonight would be the boys-in-a-bed slumber party, and look what I just found: precious!

I am certain that Dad's arm will not function tomorrow, AND I cannot believe (although I can) that Oliver insisted on and convinced the others that Cheetah and friend should join the bed. It's not that big!

Now off to bed with a marvelous rainstorm alternating between thump and pat outside.

Looking back, living forward

Christmas felt small this year. It was happy and cozy, festive and full of love, but we were the smallest group I can remember in a long while. Elia and her crew stayed in Florence, Nanny's gone and so is Mike, Dad was on call. Fortunately, my aunt Renee and cousin Jeff flew in, but I was still left with a lingering feeling that my family is shrinking faster than it's growing. Parents age, siblings and cousins move, people have fewer children I grew up with a large extended family, and we spent holidays together, parents driving everyone somewhere central like ants returning to their hive. Such seems not to be for my boys, a bittersweet truth. My brother- and sister-in-law have two darling daughters but we're lucky to see them twice a year; once is much more the norm. El will raise her kids in Italy. And so goes life, but watching the old guards age and pass trips me in moments both anticipated and unexpected.

Today, in the morning-after aura of Christmas' poignancy, Mom asked me to clear out the many keepsake boxes under my bed. Most have been stashed there for nearly twenty years: middle and high school journals; elementary school yearbooks; notes from friends and boyfriends; blackened corsages; my college thesis as it progressed; myriad items that must once have meant something dear but whose meaning has been lost in the waves of bygone decades. Who was that boy who kept writing that he loved me? Why did I save multiple fish-shaped sponges, the kind that emerge from dissolvable capsules in little kids' baths? Just how mountainous did we girls think our bangs needed to be? Why on earth did I wear such high-waisted shorts?

Sorting, tossing and deciding to save was a delightful way to spend several hours. I found some of my school work from age 8½, the same age Jack is now. I read him my very candid essay about being the oldest child and he smiled conspiratorially and said he agreed: it's honest in the way of unadulterated childhood expression. Watching his and Ol's dynamics, I can perfectly imagine how I must have felt then and how Jack sometimes feels now. I'm grateful for this reminder to sometimes let the first child feel like your baby once more. Then I showed him my report on the Trapdoor Spider; he seemed less impressed but said he admired that I wrote it as if the Spider were talking with him.

I condensed six boxes into three, filling four garbage bags with trophies, crumbly Valentines roses, old wrapping paper and boxes, letters from camp friends I no longer recall and every pamphlet about Mary Lou Retton and the Chicago Cubs under the sun.

I thought about the girl I was, the woman I've become and the sometimes enormous gulf between our memories of certain times and the "facts" of those periods as presented by written evidence. I don't remember caring much for high school, I don't remember feeling peaceful or assured during it. But photos, sweet nothings written and folded into origami parcels easily passed hand to hand in school halls, yearbook messages and glittery signs from school dances suggest that there was more happiness and friendship than I tend to recall. Seemingly endless cards from Mom, Dad, Nanny, Renee, aunts, friends, pen pals, mentors remind me of the great crowd on whose support I've often been lucky to depend.

Nothing is perfect, and I've had my share of pits and loss and darkness and worry. But I arrived here, where I am today, and I like this person. I like my family, even with its generous shake of eccentricity and foible. I like the people in my life, even as I've learned that those on whom you can really count and lean are fewer and further between than youthful idealization once led me to believe. I've learned that while grand goals and courage will help you reach achieve great things, grand expectations of others often lead to disappointment. Support is essential but so are a respect for and reliance on self.

Tonight, as Mom, Dad and Renee ate tamales, the boys slurped chili and T and I inhaled barbecue shrimp, I considered how very much easier raising kids would be with all this family around all the time. In the absence of that though, I'm grateful for the relationships we've all forged and maintained across the miles. And I hope that as I encourage the boys to individuate and ultimately live their own lives, they one day sit in a pile of memories and think back over how loved and supported they always were.