[The
Pfeffer Nuts Doughnut Shop operated on Pseudo-Martyr Street in midtown
Donnetown from 1992 to 2003. For its
grand opening, the proprietor, Joos Pfeffer, sponsored a contest for
pastry-related poems.
There were only two entries. The winning poem, entitled "Donuts Go Nuts!", was submitted by 12-year-old Maurice Bundt, who received, and devoured, a free doughnut every day the store was open for its entire existence as a business.
The other entry was sent anonymously and thereby rendered ineligible, but was printed in its entirety in the Dairy & Baked Goods section of the September 20, 1992 edition of the Donnetown Daily Elegy.]
There were only two entries. The winning poem, entitled "Donuts Go Nuts!", was submitted by 12-year-old Maurice Bundt, who received, and devoured, a free doughnut every day the store was open for its entire existence as a business.
The other entry was sent anonymously and thereby rendered ineligible, but was printed in its entirety in the Dairy & Baked Goods section of the September 20, 1992 edition of the Donnetown Daily Elegy.]
Healthy Pastry
Heaved
myself up, unbeached my carcass from the old overstuffed and
Forced
myself out the house to take a fucking walk.
Saw
a shop I never saw before, and a
Sign,
wooden sign, Oldy Timey script, just:
Healthy
Pastry.
Boutiquey,
boutiquish-looking, so's one looks to see a simpering pun of a name, but no,
just:
Healthy
Pastry.
--Healthy? Bullshit, says I, but in I went, and
They
were nice, the people there, and they showed me 'round and
There
before me, oh,
Shelves
of delight, stacked racks, golden flaky crusts and crusty flakey gold, oh and
An
orchard, a very orchard, Mister, of aroma.
Perfect
yeasty ascension fresh in every inhale and
Flavors
in the air I couldn't name, and Sweet Jesus how are they all still warm, oven
warm!
Samples crammed in my willing mouth proved the scent was merest hint of a
Taste
of Heaven and a Platonic ideal of cream erupting right in my mouth, and
Layers
within layers like ranks of a-choiring angels, each layer holding crisp but
then ahhhh
Melting
like a dream my tongue just had.
--Bugger
me sideways, says I.
--Fuck
the diet, these people say it's healthy I believe them. So good.
Three
years gone by now, and I been every day,
Healthy
Pastry,
Stuffing
my maw and it never stops being good and
Whether
in truth and in fact it is healthy I don't know, 'cause
I
don't live in truth and in fact, no Mister I live in a house with no fucking
mirrors.
Ask
me why no mirrors, I say 'cause it's not about me.
They're
nice at Healthy Pastry always nice and one day they let me look in the back and
No
flour no sugar no shortening no oven, so--
--How?
Simple
they say each Healthy Pastry item is in fact a very large--
I
think I hear "single-souled" but then they say, specifically--
Single-celled.
That delicious Eclair is a, well, a--
That delicious Eclair is a, well, a--
Prokaryote
of unusual size. Unusual. An unusually macroish microorganism.
Bacterium
or Araeum, hard to tell once baked--
Its
creamy innards a smooth cyoplasmic mass.
Uniquely unicellular.
--Even
yon mouth-ravishing fruit turnovers? I
ask.
Protozoa,
filled aburstin' with tiny organelles popping on one's tongue,
DNA
nucleus crunchy like pine nuts, and
Those
plump red currants? Mitochondria. They're good for you, they say.
Fritters? They are amoeba. So simple, so damn good with morning coffee.
--How? Ask I once more, regarding this time the
absence of an oven.
Well--
Each--ah--pastry
is ... harvested, they say. Harvested
wriggly, harvested healthy--
(They
say healthy a lot at Healthy Pastry, it's like a religious thing I just now
notice)
So,
they say, we have, say a healthy--pastry, ah, thing and we
Take
the thing and make it feel loved, right.
Loved
and special and safe. Like if you ever
felt that way even one time, you know what it is.
Awash
in love, yeah, a-basking in that glow, tender devotion & all.
Long
enough to maybe believe it.
Then,
they say --
Well,
we just take the love away.
And
the thing doesn't know what it did wrong and it
Grows
feverish thinking in circles and the fever never breaks and
Each
thing, each thing, in its fever, it--
Bakes
itself.
To
a doneness. In like a minute.
Cilia
crisping away and semipermeable cell membrane golden-brown, mmm yes and
If
you eat it still warm its soul slides straight down your gullet.
They
say.
Single-souled. One good mouth-filling soul. So good.
But
plain old people, now, they say
(Yes
they tell me all this, the Healthy Pastry crew, they won't stop talking now the
cat's out)
People
now, Sir, they have many souls, many apiece, lotsa itty souls, itty bitty but
only
In
the cardiac muscles, the fibers, the very heartstrings. The old love-a-dub, you see?
Soulful
cardiomyocytes by the millions. At
birth, that is, they say.
In
the babyhood. Brand-spanking, yes, but,
but--
Thereafter,
soon after, the wee little souls die off, continuous,
Bit
by bit by cell by mitosis by merciless time--
And
by 40 years of age. Or so. They are gone. Leaving us.
Leaving: Us.
Soulless
we. We the dear departed, Sir.
Jesus
F., how to follow that, right?
--So
(say I) ... That there pastry, then, I ask ... Is it healthy for real, ask I?
Well
Sir, it was when it got here.
--Something,
I said, oh, something
What?
--Well,
some ... thing must be done, this is a -- oh but this is a sin, I am sure?
Oh, Sir. What a little word to make a fuss over. And you with such a tooth for the pastry.
Won't
you look at this sweet beignet?
Pooft! Powdered sugar in my face, eyes snapped shut!
Eyes sprung open, staring shocked in my sugared face, mimelike white and aptly silent because
I see I stand alone upon an empty plot,
A vacant lot,
A voidy shop-sized square of ground. Layer of ash dusted all over like sugar.
A vacant lot,
A voidy shop-sized square of ground. Layer of ash dusted all over like sugar.
And a sign.
Sign
says:
Formerly Healthy Pastry.
And
I think they've corrected it in regards to descriptive properties but
Then
I think not.
I
think I gained a fifty-weight of blubber and
I
think I lost something I can't see how to put a number to and I think
The
whole goddamn world's a bathroom scale can't wait to weigh me.