Glazed Doughnut Quotes

Frosting was his favorite. He liked to eat doughnuts at every meal. Because it was healthier to eat six small meals a day than three large ones, he restricted himself: jellied for breakfast, glazed for brunch, cream-filled for lunch, frosting for linner, chocolate for dinner, and powdered sugar for 2 a.m. supermarket stakeout. Because linner coincided with the daily crime peak, he always ate his favorite variety to ease him. Frosting was his only choice now, and upsetting his routine was a quiet thrill.

You hate cake doughnuts." "Of course," says Mirren. "But we didn't get the cake, we got glazed twists." "And Boston cream," says Gat. "And Jelly," says Johnny. But I know Downyflake only makes cake doughnuts. No glazed. No Bodton cream. No jelly. Why are they lying?

Story time isn't much better. Imagine sitting in a circle with acquaintances, chanting spells and being drilled on a variety of subjects. "What sound does a duck make?" Who cares? When will I need to know that? How is this knowledge of barnyard animals and their corresponding noises going to improve my life? Toddlers who get up to stretch their legs or explore will be publicly admonished. The participation reward will not be a glazed doughnut, so don't bother.

But I really do need to clean up. Are bears attracted to the smell of sex? Am I like, a big glazed doughnut to a bear now?

Mathilde let him eat two doughnuts, and his eyes filled with tears because they were the most amazing doughnuts in the history of glazed doughnuts, food of the gods. He was full of joy.

I stopped at the front desk, about to complain to the doorman, when I was confronted with a NEW doorman, my age but balding and homely and FAT. Three glazed jelly doughnuts AND two steaming cups of extra-dark HOT chocolate opened to the comics and it struck me that I was infinitely better-looking, more successful and richer than this poor bastard would ever be and so with a passing rush of sympathy I smiled and nodded a curt though not impolite good morning without lodging a complaint.

It wasn't until the show was almost over that I figured out what it was: the crack above my David Onica that I had asked the doorman to tell the superintendent to fix. On my way out this morning, I stopped at the front desk, about to complain to the doorman, when I was confronted with a NEW doorman, my age but balding and homely and FAT. Three glazed jelly doughnuts AND two steaming cups of extra-dark HOT CHOCOLATE lay on the desk in front of him beside a copy of the Post opened to the comics and it struck me that I was infinitely better-looking, more successful and richer than this poor bastard would ever be and so with a passing rush of sympathy I smiled and nodded a curt though not impolite good morning without lodging a complaint.

Maple glazed only. Everything else is garbage -talking about doughnuts

Rosemary cornmeal doughnuts with a lemon glaze, and cornbread tartlets with ricotta and heirloom tomatoes." He set the platter on the table, and Charlotte and Zoey leaned forward to stare. The tartlets were small and perfectly round, with scalloped edges like the hems of Sunday dresses. Purple-tinged tomatoes were fanned on top, obviously cut by someone with seriously good knife skills. The doughnuts appeared to still be warm from the oven, the glaze dripping off them onto the platter. The green scent of rosemary and the sharp scent of lemon made Charlotte picture a long, sandy road. There was an old woman cooking in a summer kitchen somewhere down that road. Home.

You want a doughnut?" I held the plate out to them, and Middle Kipling's face flickered with rage for what I was pretty certain was the first time I'd ever seen any emotion on it. "You can keep your carb filled whores, thank you very much," he bit out before turning sharply and stalking from the room. "He's not a fan of food with holes," Kipling Senior commented like he was discussing the weather. "Too provocative," Junior agreed. "Practically begging for it," Senior said with a nod. "Especially if there's a glazed topping." Junior nodded at the doughnuts and the two of them turned and walked away without another word, leaving me to spit my fucking doughnut out with a shudder.

Mom's False Teeth When my mom died I didn't quite know what to do with her dentures. If I buried them with an apropos prayer they would never decompose and that would be an ecological sin. If I stuck them in my mouth I’d look like that creaturein Alien with a double set of chompers and that would be at once an homage to the artist H. R. Giger and a sacrilege like the doves released from Pope's window attacked by a black crow (who everybody knows is Satan). So I hid her dentures on top of the Coke vending machine at the Krispy Kreme on 2 Penn Plaza, NY so mom could devour the heavenly view. I imagine her impassioned eyes glazed like an 'original' sinful doughnut, her dentures munching like a wind-up toy at the sublime sight of her favorite indulgence that probably sent her to an early grave.

the physiotherapy had brought back his strength and agility. He went to the gym at Sûreté Headquarters three times a week. At first it had been humiliating, as he’d struggled to lift weights about the size of honey-glazed doughnuts, and to stay on the elliptical for more than a few minutes.

crash. It might simply encode: KRISPY KREME. DANGER. The result is that when you see a glazed doughnut or a blue Wolverines T-shirt, you might become uneasy without understanding why. Your brain is recognizing a pattern that it has flagged with life-or-death importance, and it reflexively shoots out what it believes to be the appropriate emotional response. This reflex might manifest in a big way, like a panic attack. Or it might manifest in a smaller way, like suddenly feeling very grumpy. You might decide that you’re irritated at your girlfriend for a mildly stupid thing she said that morning and text her to say so. None of this, of course, is reasonable or rational. But your brain is not trying to be reasonable. It’s trying to save your life.

Along the way he’d always stop by Sutherlin Bakery and buy us a dozen glazed doughnuts- each. I need only look up at the blue sky or the white ceiling (any blank screen will do) and I see myself, dangling my bare feet over his truck bed, feeling the fresh green wind on my face, licking glaze off a warm doughnut. Could I have risked as much, dared as much, walked the razor's edge of entrepreneurship between safety and catastrophe, without the early foundation of that feeling, that bliss of safety and contentment? I don't think so.

regular Niagara of blond highlights was Crystal, sitting alone with her breakfast, gazing at it with such earnest focus, you’d think she was on a first date with that Pepsi and glazed doughnut.

Speaking of half bad, that was one thing that the doughnuts were not, either---they were all good. The dough itself was flaky, almost more croissant-like than doughnut-like, and glazed with a crystalline crackling of sugar. The lemon doughnut gushed with sweet and tart filling, the guava and cheese was gooey and creamy, and the plain glazed was still warm from the oven.

The strong urge to give her the biggest hug I possibly could swamped me. But then our entrées came, and sorry, Alice, but they smelled so good I only wanted to hug them. Which I did not do, because then they'd be all over my shirt and not in my mouth. Which was the only place I wanted the beef roll, tender shreds of beef braised in garlic and ginger and soy sauce all chopped up and snuggled tightly inside a flaky, oniony, tender scallion pancake. The effect was something like beef Wellington, but better. Alice and I gobbled it down, using our fingertips to scrape up the last few flakes of pancake in the hot, peppery sauce. Then we turned to the other dish. "Is this... a doughnut sandwich?" Alice asked, cocking her head and blinking. "Yes," I said with relish. Alice's entire face lit up. "Excellent." And it was. From the outside, it looked like any normal glazed doughnut, shiny with hardened sugar and puffy from the heat. But the chef had sliced it down the middle and filled it with the most delightful combination of ingredients: a salty, savory aged prosciutto-like ham that melted in my mouth; little bits of tart, sweet pickled pineapple, leaves of grassy cilantro. Together, when they came into contact with the sweet, fluffy doughnut, everything crashed into a bite that was sugary and crunchy and tart and spicy and bright, so bright.

EARTH, which is life giving—so respect its boundaries Far from floating against a white background, the economy exists within the biosphere—that delicate living zone of Earth’s land, waters and atmosphere. And it continually draws in energy and matter from Earth’s materials and living systems, while expelling waste heat and matter back out into it. Everything that is produced—from clay bricks to Lego blocks, websites to construction sites, liver pâté to patio furniture, single cream to double glazing—depends upon this throughflow of energy and matter, from biomass and fossil fuels to metal ores and minerals. None of this is news. But if the economy is so evidently embedded in the biosphere, how has economics so blatantly ignored

The painfully prolonged polite greetings finally over, she stealthily drifted over to the table of goodies. She was just a finger’s length away from a chocolate-glazed precious with her name written all over it when a firm hand clamped down on her elbow. Her empty stomach sank to the bottom of her sensible shoes, and she stared up at her boss with what she knew was the most effectively pathetic hangdog expression in her arsenal. But he was having none of it; his jaw was clenched so tightly she was amazed his teeth didn’t crack. She gave one final forlorn look at the doughnuts before he led her to the long conference table in the center of the room. “Try to pay attention,” he muttered in her ear as he planted her into a seat that, cruelly, faced the delicious spread just a table’s breadth away from her. What followed was the longest, most boring and torturous three hours of Cleo’s life. The meeting was conducted entirely in Japanese, which Cleo didn’t speak but Dante most certainly did, and quite fluently too from what she could tell. She didn’t know why she was there. He had a Dictaphone recording the meeting, so even if she’d been able to understand what was going on, she wouldn’t have had to take notes anyway. All she could do was stare at the doughnuts and other delicious goodies in front of her and imagine how they tasted. At one point a fly landed on her doughnut. It took everything she had not to jump up with a primal scream and chase it away. Instead, she watched in revulsion as it crawled over every inch of her beautiful doughnut. She nearly sobbed in disappointment, gave up on the chocolate one, and shifted her attention to a gorgeous éclair on a different platter. But when that bastard fly, which she had now named Damaso Jr., landed on her éclair as well, she slumped back in her chair and stared glumly down at the blank notebook in front of her.

But I know Downyflake only makes cake doughnuts. No glazed. No Boston cream. No jelly. Why are they lying?

Darla, why would you choose the plain glazed donut? Why not the frosted, fritter, maple, or cro-nut?

Darla, why would you choose the plain glazed donut? Why not the frosted, fritter, maple, or cro-nut? ... It's the dough inside that matters!