It was only a dream...

I had an illicit romp with an old love this morning.

Today is my boss' birthday. I was out late last night, and hadn't had a chance to bake anything for him, so I stopped at a great little bakery in Arlington Heights on my way to work. I walked in the door, took a number, and was standing in line for my apple-cheese coffee cake when I saw him there, watching me.

He was sitting quietly behind the glass, hanging out with his friends and enjoying the warmth of the lights. He hadn't changed in years, and he looked good enough to eat.

He, of course, was a chocolate-iced cake donut.

My breath caught, and I knew that I could not resist his charms. I had to have him, then and there.

This torrid affair all started when I was a little girl. Sometimes on Saturday mornings, my uncle Tim would swing by to pick me (and/or my sister) up and take us out for a few hours. He drove a big green Ford that we nicknamed The Green Machine, and I remember sitting in the back seat, listening to Supertramp, and tooling around to all of his favorite spots. Sometimes, we would go to the Texan restaurant and order pancakes. Other times, we swung past Spatz's bakery and picked up fresh-baked bread and brought it to his house to make toast with peanut butter and jelly.

The best, though, was when we would drop in at Provenzano's grocery. It was a little corner market, complete with butcher shop and deli, on the west side of Saginaw where everyone knew Tim by name. It was a little slice of Americana that I will never forget.

Just inside the front door, in the window facing the street, Mr. Provenzano had placed a huge machine, which came to life every morning long before the store opened. This magical contraption made, much to the delight of my sister and me, the world's most perfect cake donuts.

At one end, the man who was running the cash register would place a huge pile of dough into a contraption that would cut it into rings and deposit it into a veritable river of (most likely highly saturated) fat. The young donuts would swirl around, get flipped over at just the right time, and then come out the other side to be deposited on a grated conveyor belt to cool. After a few minutes, when they were still just barely too warm to touch, a thick layer of chocolate frosting would be dripped over the entire mess...and within moments, we would have the world's best sticky warm donuts in our chubby little hands.

In the car on the way home, we would lick our fingers and proclaim Tim the best uncle that ever was. Life just didn't get any better.

Later, when I got married and moved to Joliet, we lived two blocks from what may have been the world's best donut shop. When the weather was right, you could smell the place from our big Victorian front porch. Mark and I would take A down the street in his stroller, pop in for an apple fritter, and congratulate ourselves for choosing the perfect location to settle our little family.

But alas, all good things do come to an end. Somewhere around 2002, it occurred to me that too many years of indulging in the sweet love of donuts (and other delightful treats) had taken far too great a toll on my waistline. It was time to break off the relationship. Donuts and I were through.

Like any addict, I have fallen off the wagon every now and again. When I find myself in Joliet on business, my car sometimes exercises its own free will and hijacks me to the donut shop parking lot. Of course, at that point, I have no choice but to answer the call and guiltily devour a delicious cruller. I'm only human, after all.

But as a general rule, when someone offers me one of the tasty pieces of evil, I will polite decline with, "Thanks, but I gave those up forty pounds ago." I can hear them crying as they are carted away.

This morning, though, when I saw him in his neat little case, I could not say no to him, my old flame. He called, and I answered. When my number came up on the little board, I said to the nice old lady, "I'd like an apple-cheese coffee cake and a chocolate-iced cake donut, please."

She smiled knowingly. The coffee cake was wrapped in one large wax paper bag, and the donut in another, smaller bag. I paid her $8.27, and I stepped quickly out to my car. As I slipped into the driver's seat, I pulled the beautiful boy out, looked fondly upon him, and took a huge, incredibly un-ladylike bite.

He wasn't as good as he used to be thirty years ago. Of course, neither am I. But we sat there together, enjoying the moment as only lovers can. When I was finished, I started the car and headed to the office.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I licked the last of the chocolate icing from my fingers. Then I wiped them on a napkin I found in the glove compartment, picked up my iPod, and put on some Supertramp. I sang along loudly, poorly, and with great abandon.

Later, I called my uncle. As I recounted the events of the morning, he began to laugh. "You'll never guess what I had for breakfast this morning," he said.

It turns out that even though Provenzano's is long gone, they sold the donut machine to a little place on the other side of town when they closed. Tim had gone over to the east side and gotten himself a warm chocolate-iced cake donut.

For a moment, before I tackled the catastrophe that was my desk, I was a happy, chubby six year-old with a belly full of sugary goodness.

Everyone should have a moment like that every now and again, regardless of their will to fight the addiction. Sometimes, the view from the ground beside the wagon is mighty fine.