Donuts That Save the World

If only I could save the world by enjoying donuts. Puffy maple icing ones are a fave and the humble crumb donut will always work. Depends on the time of day whether I try donut shop coffee, meaning one place has reliable turpentine coffee, strong and tasteless enough to remove car paint, while another prepares fantastic brew. Sugary tip that I share is to focus on just donuts. They can be working best in altruism mode, the effort we give to do right by each other without attention on self since we are quietly munching a donut on the sidelines, observing the show and how, perhaps, we brought positive influence one way or another.

Dining on three at a leisurely or frenetic pace, again, depends on the time of day, brings results either way. Being loaded on sugar soothes my existential angst that the world is going to hell in a handbasket and there ain’t squat I can do.

When I am pissed at the global state of affairs, which can be often, I eat a donut. And the deal is that as you are the reader for this blog essay, I would like to share with you. First though the risk to welcome life’s bakery bonuses takes work. Who just waltzes into, “Oh, yeah, that sweet job offer was meant to go my way.” Huh? Most of us are kinda shocked that the universe does truly seek us out to enhance life. Given this mindset, little wonder that opening any mainstream media source brings ominous news. Precarious survival ahead, maybe—if we make it that far, the survival part. Just sayin’ that we gotta lean into deep fried flour that is sugar coated in times of uncertainty, even peril.

Helpful that Amanda Palmer in her book The Art of Asking: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help reminds us that for a creative chocolate glazed sweetie-sweet like me (and some will debate my self-description), I have the hardest time even accepting the donut. For example, on this beautiful Saturday afternoon, not a single word exaggerates when I write that birds are chirping, tropical warm ocean breezes are floating, sunshine makes for a happy game of flag football on the green-green grass field nearby, and I am sitting on a comfy portable chair scribbling away on the keyboard, energized by an amazing cup of coffee, three tasty sing-to-the-heavens taqueria tacos, and enough gratitude to fill several thermoses or oceans.

See what I mean? All these lift ups are so exorbitant, as in why me? Why do I get to enjoy so much? Palmer reminds me to simply construe all the rewards as one humongous donut to enjoy, messengered over by mystery elves the universe appreciates hiring. And given that my donut girth will not shift the world’s demise one iota, perhaps I can share a quirky blog essay on my time in Hilo, Big Island Hawai’I, where I spent this weekend, as a way to share the donut. Maybe the prose and photos enhance the day somehow. Just that, a sort of substitute donut—even though I can hear plenty bickering that the exchange is not fair. Seems we already covered that ground as in ain’t squat we can do, mostly, to effect global peace. Let’s donut anyway.

Sometimes I even get suspicious, or choose preemptory hostility, about the weather. Hilo is known for grey cloudy skies, then rain that incubates the city in humidity. And then expect more rain. Yet as we approach on Friday afternoon around 5 p.m. all that falls on us is sunshine. We hurry a few travel items into the Hilo Bay Hostel where our room has an ocean view, and not the miniscule sliver that real estate agents claim as “expansive view.” Standing at either one of the tall windows, we can see the ocean for miles or kilometers, whichever translates best.

Across the street an open-air party unfolds as artist vendors sell artisan jewelry, soaps, sewings, and much more while foodie trucks park close, forming an active walking space through this foodie business rectangle. Inside each truck a diverse cooking haven offers specific culinary choices: Thai, Filipino, Barbecue, Taqueria, Bakery Sourdough, Vegetarian Big Island Grindz and others. Some happy steps are being jaunted by folks as they walk from dining space to dining space since a live band keeps belting lively tunes.

The amazingly warm temperature sustains through the evening so my worry as to inclement weather eases some, yet back at the Hilo Bay Hostel, I continue testing the donut-gift by keeping the two windows wide open, an easy accomplishment given the ceilings are 13 feet or so.

Walking up the stairs to Hilo Bay Hostel.

And the room nurtures my 11-year-old son and I through two queen beds cozy-ed up in classic Hawaiian quilts. Two white rattan sitting chairs have an accompanying table. Elegant satin-soft emerald green curtains, a steady wind from the ceiling fan, and clean hardwood floors to walk barefoot spell out holiday spoiling. The luxury weekend mode made me commit $93 for the evening to play out this travel project. We all allocate our money in diverse ways, and for me, the unexpected eccentricity that a road trip constructs, lends meaning to the time and money I wish to invest in.

Given the benevolent Hilo weather so far, I go on that risky ledge to trust travel gods and how they might toss even more succor onto the sidewalk. And as I continue walking on the cement pathway, the leap of faith rewards soon. Looking inside the window, I spot a cozy taqueria, a few tables full of lunch customers, and once I am sitting at a table of my own, my order arrives—a three-taco plate: carnitas (pulled pork), al pastor (like barbecue sauce marinated pork, yet not exactly) and chorizo (spicy sausage). After a quick silent motionless prayer upwards (try to keep these spills into spirituality simple so I don’t look like totally askew in the universe), I begin.

From one small plastic container a salty chipotle salsa pours easy on the carnitas taco. The first bite reveals that cooks somehow infuse the carnitas, as the pork seems to taste of smokey ham. Two fresh fluffy corn tortillas wrap around the fillings to secure salsa, carnitas, diced white onion, and cilantro in one abundant bite. On the al pastor taco spills the other salsa, a more mellow, still picante salsa verde. For each bite, I splash salsa then savor the rush of such alert savory flavors. Even the chorizo arrives cooked through and less greasy than can happen. Three ono tacos on a plate portend especially hopeful omens for the remaining day. Ninja use of paper napkins are how I finish the meal because I do not care one whiff that I have lifted the plate to slurp all remaining flowy salsa and da kine remnants.

My belly extends wider than usual since I stayed true to the winter commitment; I knew ten pounds or so would find me, so willing was my spirit to eat well over the holiday. After such seasonal success, gaining the weight I planned, I skip the rice and beans that could have accompanied the tacos. And this means, I feel light after eating lunch. And I also have the mental fortitude to remember where I was going. Stumbling on the taqueria was an “accident” (sure, sure—like most of life) when I parked the car where I thought the farmer’s market was. Turns out not so and lucky me, or donut-gifting number 742 for the day.

Driving a few blocks on the oceanside (makai) road, I then discover the farmer’s market, and seeing the segregated color line reminds me to temper how I react to the world’s inequality—in this case, how gender influences economics. Nearly all vendors are women of color while most shoppers are haole (foreigners, most often Caucasian). What I can do is spend cash thoughtfully, so I purchase tomatoes, slices of coconut, cucumbers, and sweet bell peppers. Nibbling on nutritious food tastes political this day and the next, as I finish the snacks.

Across the street is a coffee cart where one full-strength cup of South American brew energizes the afternoon writing, re-checking in to Hilo Bay Hostel’s dorm room for the evening, and strolling downtown Hilo streets again, around 4 in the afternoon. Peering in windows entertains the senses. Sounding steady is the drill from the tattoo shop where a woman lies flat, her left arm extended, a canvas for art. Another shop showcases how chocolate arrives to our palate and this historical storytelling hangs on the store’s interior walls. Beyond the threshold of another business, an artisan has been carving intricate wood designs for decades and keeps his own art gallery to display the work. Boba tea, sushi, attorney at law, breakfast café, Thai food, poke bowls, Hawaiian bakery, and more eclectic offerings are what the sidewalk stroll brings to our attention.

And by 5 p.m—ish the stomach stirs activate again, yet a customer sized vat of Vietnamese Pho will satisfy. Lam’s Garden has become one family favorite Hilo restaurant for its simplicity in décor and reliable delivery on Pho, which is the culinary guess that thin strands of rare beef will cook in the bowl’s hot broth, the kind that simmers for hours before to distill veggies and meat tastings, while noodles continue to soften at the bottom of the bowl before you, and then fresh basil leaves, squeeze of lime, sprouts, and raw jalapeno are what you add before stirring, that these blended ingredients will result in a kitchen promise fulfilled. On each visit, Lam’s pho keeps its promise. And I am jazzed that my 11-year-old son routinely asks if pho can be on the dinner menu for that evening.

Turn the Page bookstore in Hilo, where bibliophiles meet to fall in love.

A pot of green tea, a large bowl of pho, and I slosh out the restaurant’s front door as the sun wanders to the other side of the world, that creates a pleasant dusk shadow draping the storefronts now. Around the next street corner, one jewel bookstore that bibliophiles might commit a crime for, nestles into its organized space as hundreds and hundreds of quirky, fascinating tombs fill shelves designed like a maze that gives reading the solo space an intense browsing needs and next lulls your curiosity to keep walking a few steps to turn the corner. What titles await? One crunchy ten-dollar bill exits my pocket as I pay for Pema Chodron’s book The Places That Scare You, A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times (2002).

Soaking up the bookstore browsing experience might justify a few hours, yet two doors away is the Palace Theater where Joel Coen has turned Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Macbeth into a film, now showing in this majestic venue at 7 p.m. Early enough I arrive anyway to enjoy dinner dessert, a small bag of popcorn laced with furikake and maple syrup for that sweet-salty combo. Dipping into Chodron’s writing, at a dog-eared chapter titled “Finding the Ability to Rejoice,” is like a physical pinch on my skin or snapping back the rubber band on your wrist, prose reminders, in other words, that radical gleeful abundance exists in this world.

This day has been an exercise in that existential practice to focus well on the day’s treasures. Shall I select the maple glazed, old fashion, or one with sprinkles? What life requires of us can be so simple. So, I close the book as the theater lights dim, finish munching the popcorn quietly so as not to irritate neighboring viewers, and watch Macbeth on the big screen. Even I cannot complicate the moment.

Still, on more days than my ego would perhaps like to admit, I can be the leastest brightest duck floating on the pond of life, which simply means that learning attempts can take me a long time, and so I sit in the movie theater more on the doubt than the confident side if I will be able to understand Shakespearean language through aural methods compared to literal, as in reading off the physical page. Will I get it?

At first, comprehension stumbles some and my ears are straining. Then the phrases start to delight, and sheer joy happens from such evocative language. Plus, film is a wildly different medium than text. Take just one aspect of the stage production. The tight claustrophobic castle spaces so clearly convey lurking emotional uncertainty around the next corner, hiding behind walls to escape a guilty conscience, and feral crows flying in and out of majestic tall castle windows as symbols of madness. For sure the film merits an entire essay, so for this juncture in prose building, enough to share that seeing the film rewards in so many artistic ways—brilliant actors, black/white cinematography, and ultra-creative mis-en-scene. Plus, the director Joel Coen selects African American actors for many key roles. Refreshing and energizing when diversity in casting makes the film even more open to delivering creative art.

What a satiated sensibility I have as I stroll one block to my car after the movie ends. The day has provided so many sensory experiences and I am feeling like the luckiest donut around. Parking nearby the Hilo Bay Hostel, I saunter into the historical building at ease and ready to enjoy a full night’s slumber. Minor interruptions are the woman’s cell phone blasting church bell chimes at midnight, that rock me into an incoherent mumble so passed-out, the great kind, asleep was I by 10 p.m. and ask, “Is that your phone?” She concisely ignores my question but does engage in some furtive whispering, a noise that happens 20 feet away from where I attempt to sleep in the dorm room that we “share.” Will she resolve the micro-drama in her world? As King Macbeth aptly concludes, often “sound and fury, signify nothing."

Absolute compassion on my side as I recall the countless times I have been there, done that. By midnight, I am staring up to the tall-tall ceiling curious if sleep will arrive tonight. And then my phone starts to ring, and my inner-goddess throws up her hands in exasperation. Furgittaboutit. Sleep some other night. Just not this one. My son is calling at 12 : 15 p.m.

Mind you, I had shared with my 11-year-old son the 3 a.m. motto that I live by before he trotted off to join his friend for a stayover. Seems that after a few decades working on my integrity and maturity thing (growing up can happen), if you call at 3 a.m. (and I am NOT suggesting that you do), my promise is to put tea water on and start listening. In sobriety circles, the dire call can be the most necessary. So, we make the point to answer our phones and just relax. Maybe five minutes chatting can redirect lives, the caller’s and my own.

But I did not mean for my son to activate my life motto at this late hour just to see what might happen. Where does he inherit that adventurous spirit? Good news is that I answer quickly, ready to admonish him in cranky mode for calling so darn late. He gets the message, also quickly, and we say goodnight less than cuddly, warm-feeling “I love you” murmurings as most nights usually conclude for our family. I do not hang up directly on him, yet we swiftly promise to talk again—in real time, meaning the next blimey morning. And I can fall asleep after a while, even as during the night some more Macbethean mad mumblings again sound off from the adjacent bed, that I resolutely ignore. Sweet slumber happens.

Given the erratic sleep, how I appreciate the next morning’s coffee that I brought with me, including a small coffee maker that I plug in, which dribbles hot water through an amazing Ethiopian coffee bean, a slight citrus kicks in the strong ratio—water to ground bean—that I brew. Caffeinated well, life’s balance returns and I venture to the Hilo Bay coastline, a slow drive that brings warm tropical air hugs. One beach park after the next appears to my left as the car maintains the road trip adventure this weekend.

On Big Island Hawai’i every coastline tells diverse stories—the chip of the cement wall, or no barrier at all, volcanic black granules for this sand, or beige sand with tinges of green for that beach, swaying palm trees, or simply long-long stretches of sand to ocean’s edge. Every ocean access point on Big Island reveals and unfolds many complex histories that shape the spot.

Learning these takes time, truth be told (or, at least, my truth), and the deception remains that one-week vacationing will do the trick. The aloha ease that can happen in one week benefits our visitors on island and I am happy for that. Happy donut—ing to our travelers. What I have learned, however, as I strive to achieve four years living full time in the Kohala region on Big Island, is the depth in Hawaiian culture—food, fashion, music, dance, politics, language, and so much more. What I am trying to say is that even what appears as a simple ocean visit imbues complexity to that beach spot.

For example, as I sit on a bench during an AA meeting at Leiweihi Beach Park, way out in the deep ocean blue a massive whale jumps high into the air, the bubbly white-water splash so visible even this far away. How is that possible? What is the purpose? Do other whales join? Is this a seasonal gig? I know so little. The beauty of that massive mammal’s acrobatics catches my breathe though.

And I continue listening deeply to my fellow AAers who share insights on healthy living, away from addiction. One brief reading from a text The Daily Reflection reminds us that in recovery we are not a glum lot, especially if we go easy does it, not allowing imbalanced world affairs to rock our world—instead, aiming to be the pebble in the pond that ripples serenity, as often as can, then can.

One startling surprise happens when I share and a spontaneous tear falls as I cry briefly when recalling that my older brother died of stomach cancer on March 6, 2019, and that he lived so actively with a penchant for fun. After a tear or two, I am chuckling as I remember his antics, the jokey prankster he could be, and that my own enthusiasm for choosing fun during the day seems like, in part, a tribute to him. In AA meetings we go around the circle to share on spiritual experience as antidote to addiction, and my unwitting spike of grief during this 8 : 30 a.m. AA meeting reminds me how waves of emotion occur so randomly during the day. And we get to choose how to react to them. The drink or the pill or the snort or the needle or the toke are mere symptoms that an individual still needs training wheels before cycling well—without any of these—into emotional sobriety, a reasonably balanced life.

Writing these Hilo weekend travel notes are one way I can react to my emotions through optimism, the gratitude in this prose. The AA meeting clarifies the day early, that the upcoming 24 hours can reside in emotional sobriety if I choose, and in that ease, I continue to explore the Hilo coastline as I return to where my son is. Appears that ancient Hawaiian cultures created many productive fishing ponds, relying on natural resources the ocean provides. So intriguing and the next Hilo visit requires that I find a helpful history book to help me learn further.

Our family’s Hilo trip ends with a boisterous lunch at Lam’s Garden, two families enjoying many bowls of Pho, and later my son and I complete a casual drive back home, taking in the stunning Hamakua views along the way. In the surprise book that found me in the Hilo bookstore, one story the Buddhist nun Pema Chodron offers in the rejoicing chapter recounts a grumpy cook in the monastery who continues to feed her foul mood rather than shifting. The grumpy cook bakes chocolate chip cookies to change her pessimism on the day, but they burn. Yet on a walk to try and escape herself, she brings the charred sweets, anyway. Then a fox appears.

To the delight of the fox, the imperfect cookies appear as a snack. The cook and fox are equally rewarded by appreciating baked goods. When he was alive, how many times my older brother would go secure a large box of the most amazing donuts from Red’s Donut—ery on Alvarado Street in Monterey, CA. His family of two teenage daughters, his wife, and my family of my son and I plus the Garrett family grandmother/mother matriarch, enjoyed ono-ono donuts throughout the day. Who can predict how we nourish the whole tribe with one donut at a time?