In the camera of my mind are captured snapshots of my youth faded now as all old photos do. But sometimes, there lingers a picture of an old friend or two, making me smile and remember. It was a sweet dream faded away to nothing, but one man’s face remained front and center. John Swint was baker extraordinaire.
John held franchises to five of the Winchell’s Donut shops in the late 1960s. At 2:30 a.m. every weekend, and daily during the summer, I would rise and scramble into my standard uniform – baker’s whites to fry the donuts that John created.
In the late sixties, Winchell’s donut shops dotted the neighborhood corners, in much the same way as Krispy Kreme’s and Dunkin Donuts do today. Bright lights drew early risers in from the cold where the rich brew of coffee and a warm donut welcomed them to a brand new day. Many would stay to watch the show as our creations became a reality. It will always be my favorite way to begin a morning.
How long has it been since you’ve enjoyed the taste of a freshly made glazed raised donut? How can I describe it? Still warm from the fryer, the sugar glaze kisses your lips, and as your teeth rip the first bite, this calorie-laden pleasure yields a soft and yeasty texture melting in your mouth. Take a bite, sip your coffee. Ecstasy!
The bells on the glass door merrily announcing my 3:00 a.m. shift, John would greet me with a hearty “Hi Shorty, let’s get rolling.” The dough was already rising on the wide cutting board, where soon rolling pin and pastry cutters transformed it into mouth-watering confections.
Manning my station at the fryer, we worked as a team, synchronizing our movements into a rhythm of sorts. Roll-thump, roll-thump, with a twist of his wrist, he formed, cut, tossed and caught the circles of dough, rapidly filling the fry racks with unfinished raised donuts, long johns, twists, jelly, apple fritters, and cinnamon rolls. Taking a step off the high platform where he worked in front of the large glass window, John would place rack after rack on the shelves of the proofer. In the warm steam moisture, the unfinished dough rose to perfect plumpness, ready for my end of the teamwork.
With a splat and a sizzle, the fry racks hit the red hot shortening. Bubbling their way to a golden brown, each donut shimmered in the grease. Wielding two sticks, I turned them over quickly to ensure a uniform color. Fast now – don’t lose the rhythm – lift that rack out of the fryer and transfer the finished product to a glazer, the satin coat of white vanilla beckoning to be drizzled over the top and sides of a fresh, warm donut.
Raised donuts complete, I turned my attention to cranking the hopper with a soft batter mix for dozens of buttermilk or cake donuts. Icings were available in many different flavors: strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, orange, maple, etc. A crowd-pleaser, chocolate sprinkles adorned many cake donuts.
By the time I finished with all the frying, it was almost 6:00 a.m., the morning clerk came on shift, and the driveway was a blur of moving cars. John enjoyed his customers and knew most of them by their first name. To him, a customer was the opportunity to meet a new personality, hear a new joke, smile at a pretty woman, and make money.
I don’t remember ever seeing him wear anything other than his baker whites. John’s grizzled face was kind, and his bright blue eyes often twinkled with laughter as if life provided him with a private joke. By 6:00 a.m, he had his old khaki jacket on, patiently waiting for me to wrap it up. Ready to leave for unit number two, and more of the same, he always had the same brief words, “Let’s hit it shorty.”
Why are my memories of the donut shops so important to me? It was there in the wee hours of the morning that I felt like an adult with opinions to be respected and with two hands that were capable of making a living. While John was always free with advice, he sprinkled it liberally with laughter. He taught me to look people in the eye and how to discern the good and the bad among them. I grew to embrace life, laugh at myself when necessary, and persevere when I wanted to quit. Scratching his bald head, he’d tell me, “You know all that money I put in the bank – I got that by working every day, all day. Honest work means getting your hands dirty; you can always wash them later. Do your best, don’t stop. Knowledge and money will catch up with you.”
John and I worked together for four years. I was twenty when I realized it was time for me to learn new things. He encouraged me to find a job with skills he couldn’t teach. And so I did. Today, just as it did in my dream, it makes my heart content to walk in from the cold to the welcoming smells of fresh coffee and donuts. I see myself again at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen through twenty, a young girl always laughing, learning, and maturing, into the grown-up me. I bet when we meet again somewhere over the clouds, John will be there to greet me with “Hi Shorty, let’s get rolling.”