Ode To Krispy Kreme

I grew up in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, home of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. (Okay, technically, I grew up in Rural Hall, just a couple of towns over from Winston-Salem, but anyway…) There was always something magical about going “into town” to the original Krispy Kreme store. A true diner, with the gold flecked Formica countertops. Swivel stools. Worn, forest green plastic seats. Old men in hats with small feathers drinking coffee. A little dirty, a little apathetic. Just the way a diner should be.

Nowadays, there’s a new store. I miss the old one. The one of my girlhood. The one of trips into town with my daddy. The one of drunken nights in high school (sorry, mom). The one I returned to, longing, during college, even though I was only 90 minutes away, an eternity, in Chapel Hill.

I visited the new store today. I had to. See, there’s a phenomenon here, Winston-Salemites will tell you about, it’s the neon red, “Hot Doughnuts Now” sign. When it’s lit, it means exactly that. Hot doughnuts, now. Come on in, or drive through the drive-thru. And get the melt in your mouth, like nothing you’ve ever tasted before, absolutely tantalizing sensation of a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

Now, I realize that Krispy Kreme is in its heyday now. They’ve opened stores all over the country. I’ve been to the one in Union City, CA. I’ve been to the one in Las Vegas, NV. I’ve bought them in the various grocery stores across the country. It’s not the same.

There is something magical about visiting the place where Krispy Kremes were born.

As I sat there, basking in the late afternoon sunshine, enjoying my hot glazed doughnut, my creme filled, chocolate covered doughnut, and my cup of Rich, hot coffee, I watched the production process. The magical production process. The process I will never tire of observing.

Perfectly round circles of dough squirted onto ventilated trays. The trays go up, and down. Up, and down. Up, and down. Slowly, ever so slowly, allowing the yeast to work its magic. Allowing those soon to be perfect doughnuts to rise. Rise, baby, rise. Then, just at the right moment, they are flipped, turned over, dumped on their back, into hot, sizzling, grease. They sizzle, they brown. They bobble, they float. Then they rise up onto a lever, of sorts. And, BAM! flipped over. Back into the sizzling grease. Browned on the other side. Floating along, ever so aimlessly. Bob, bob, bob. Then, my favorite. The waterfall of iced sugar. A solid coat. Creamy white, evenly pouring, thick, sweet sugar. Oh, how I would love to be under that waterfall. It coats the manna, slowly, carefully, every bit of surface exposed, then covered with heavenly sweetness. That epitome of perfection is then lifted onto a slotted conveyer belt, moving, still slowly, no hurry here, towards the college girl, idly chatting with a co-worker, ready with a straw to lift that sweet sensation into a flat cardboard box, ready to sell to the next customer who comes in, saying, “I’ll take a dozen of the glazed. Hot, now, ya’ hear….”