On my kitchen counter are 2 boxes of apple cider doughnuts. There were 3 boxes, but tragically one failed to survive the trip home. The siren song of their non-cider-y, non-apple-y, pure sugary/fatty/donutty/still-warm goodness was too tempting to resist.
They deserved their fate, the alluring darlings. Their friends in the other two boxes survived only because I was driving, and had a carful of children, who did not need to be scarred by the sight of me lining the doughnuts up in a row. and inhaling them. Nor the sight of Papa Zappa and me fighting tooth and nail for the last sweet crumbs.
But my sugar-drugged ecstasy is doomed. For alas, the farm which produces these is closing shortly forever, prey to the riches offered by the Evil Developers who have long coveted the beautiful farmland. When I learned of this, my response was Homerian. Both kinds. The shrill girlish “AAAAARRGHHHHH” of the Simpson paterfamilias. And the urge to write my own odyssey of a quest for dooooooonuts (OK, the minivan is a Dodge, not a Honda. So sue me).
Those of you in the Washington area will join me in mourning the doomed Cherry Hill Farm. Soon to be naught but a legend.