The Sacrament of the Donuts

I don’t know what this says about the women of St. Dunstan’s, but this morning three separate people brought what totaled 13 dozen boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts. And a fourth person was highly suspected of contributing.

Mimi and Tutu were scheduled to provide hospitality at coffee hour, but when Patricia checked messages at church on Saturday there was one from them saying they would be out of town. So Patricia picked up five dozen fresh donuts at the shop in Roswell last night. Meanwhile, Claudia, VOD for today (the vestry person responsible for unlocking and locking the church) had called Titu and Mimi earlier in the week to remind them of their duties. When she didn’t reach anyone, she stopped by the grocery store and picked up a few more dozen Krispy Kremes.

Separately, Friday afternoon Ellen left a phone message asking if I could do our coffee time by myself since she would also be out of town. If I’d bothered to look at a schedule, I would have known that today was not my day (it’s next week, Fourth of July). But I didn’t look and so brought another five dozen donuts, fresh out of the grease pits of the Krispy Kremes down on Ponce.

As the donuts continued to mount on the big silver table in the kitchen, I heard someone ask if Lucy Kaltenbach hadn’t been responsible for some of it.

Anyway, because there were so many calorie-laden boxes awaiting consumption, Patricia made an announcement during the service about our embarrassment of donut riches. Please come to coffee and have a hot donut, and then help yourself to a second, she said (I’m paraphrasing).

Not surprisingly, I think everyone who attended the late service showed up for coffee time. I heard the rumbling of conversation in the Parish Hall, as all of five dozen donuts were handily put in the stomachs of parishioners. I was listening from the kitchen, where I committed to washing dishes, though my many visitors did most of the cleanup, Penny, Claudia, Lucy all pitching in to help.

Wayne Hood dropped in a moment to wax poetically about some other dish he’d tried that was actually worse for your health than Krispy Kremes. He then described a dish that was fatted and fried and sliced and buttered and probably fried again.

Joe dropped off his cup at the sink, smiling, “It’s okay to eat these in church.”

Before we knew it, the rumble of voices had died down. The Parish Hall was cleared of every last straggler. We lingered, chatting about this and that—insidery altar guild stuff, and about crone-ings, which take place on a woman’s 50th birthday. (Claudia said Gilda knows how to do the ceremony. Apparently it’s a very important rite of passage in womanhood.)

As we headed for the front door, the lights went out in the parish hall, the kitchen. The halls now dark. We met Patricia locking up the office and walked out with her. There is something about St. Dunstan’s during that quiet right after everyone has left, like you can still hear a wisp of laughter. The lingering good-byes in the parking lot, surrounded by forest.

The answer to the question: What does this all say about the women of St. Dunstan’s? I have no idea. But I will tell you that we froze five dozen donuts and that’s what we’re having for coffee time next week.