I wrote this as an attempt to get a job with a magazine as their humor columnist. I didn’t get the job. It was good times trying, though. Now, you can hear my story. It’s from last summer, up in Park City, so I get to include the video Google made for me from my cell phone media. Enjoy.
The fritter mission: unaccomplished
I couldn’t be interrupted. Not for a poopy diaper. Not for fighting kids. Not for spilled milk. Not for a few minutes. I was on Instagram. You can’t be interrupted when doing that. If you look away for a few seconds, it races you back to the top of your feed. Who designed that user experience?
While my two kiddos bickered and argued about who got to help Daniel Tiger go potty on the Kindle game, I double-tapped on all of my friends’ pictures of their kids. Like. Like. Like.
And then this delectable picture slid up into my view. Oh. My. Donuts!
I was hungry. Dinner waited for me to put down my phone and begin assembling a Pinterest-inspired Instant Pot Martha Stewart or Paula Deen or Anthony Bourdain or Lion House rolls copycat recipe.
Donuts looked so much better. Especially these donuts. The social media post was spot on: it highlighted the sticky sugar coating on the top of the fritter, with frosted and maple donuts tucked into the corners, and the caption was short and sweet: “The best donuts and hot fritters from the Chevron in small town, USA.”
The fritter filled more than half of the donut box.
Yeah. I could eat that for dinner. I had to go. I clicked on the location tagged in the picture.
These are REALLY from a Chevron?
I could get some donuts with my Techron?
I scanned over the comments on the post and made note of several important details: one person said they went and the donuts were sold out; the fritters are as big as a dinner plate; the locals want to keep it a secret.
The secret was out.
Do you ever fall victim to the mistake of browsing social media when hungry? I am an accomplished dessert-pinner between the hours of 3:00 and 5:00 in the afternoon. The location of the donuts was problematic for me. It wasn’t because it was at a Chevron. I’m what you might call a Chevron fan girl. I know. You didn’t think that was a thing. It is. I’m one. My mom is one. It’s that Techron, you see. According to my wise mother: a reputable consumer product ratings magazine declared that Techron was a legit additive that truly did clean your engine when you used it. I often passed gas station after gas station to arrive at a particular Chevron, whip out my blue gas card, and fill ‘er up.
The problem for me was that the Chevron was located in Kamas. Trusty ol’ Google maps informed me that it was a 59 minute drive to purchase the sugary goodness of those small-meteor-sized fritters.
For some people, an hour in the car is their typical one-way commute.
I was once one of those people.
Now, an hour in the car means trouble because my world revolves around the sacred nap.
I’m THAT parent.
Don’t interrupt my toddler’s nap. Do you want to know the last people to knock on my front door during nap time? Jehovah’s Witnesses.
I decided to make the donut trek late in the afternoon after a day at the lake. Donuts post swimming and boating sounds like the best way to refuel. And I could do it while simultaneously fueling my SUV with Techron. Everyone wins.
I was with family at Rockport Reservoir, which, by the way, is a hidden gem on the Weber River, named after the town of Rockport: a town it completely submerged when it was created by the Wanship Dam. (Insert bad joke about being underwater on your mortgage here.) Shortly after lunch on the beach, I loaded up my four-year old and one-year old in my soon-to-need-gas SUV. We took a scenic drive to get there, traveling along Highway 32, through Peoa and Oakley before rolling into Kamas. My toddler fell asleep at the beginning of the drive.
“Let her keep sleeping,” I whisper-commanded my four-year old. He nodded and grabbed the sleep sheep to turn on some white noise. (I buy ALL the sleep products. Because nap time is sacred.)
“There it is, mom,” son announced, pointing not at the distant Chevron we were approaching, but at the red dot on the Google Maps app on my phone.
It was 3:00 in the afternoon. Could there be any donuts left?
We filled the car with Techron, then went inside for donuts.
I looked around for the donut case.
They didn’t have a case.
They had a wall.
A donut-display wall: four doors of five shelves with trays filled with donuts, bars, fritters, bagels, and brownies.
They HAD BEEN filled.
At 3:00 in the afternoon on a Wednesday, only a few brownies remained.
Not a single fritter.
Not one maple bar.
Not even a plain ol’ glazed donut.
“Where are the donuts, mom?” my son asked.
“They’re all gone, buddy.”
I told him I was sorry. I was sorry for myself.
I felt tricked. I’d been caught by a social media phishing scam! I’d seen pictures of donuts. Delicious donuts. Giant donuts. Calories-for-days donuts. Maybe they HAD been a trick! A gimmick! A carefully crafted hook to convince me to drive to the small town, nestled in a nook of the Uinta Mountains. Once there, I’d bought their Techron gas. And I’d used precious nap time to drive there!
It was a long, quiet drive back, without anything frosted in maple. Without anything that rhymes with twitter. Maybe I should stick to thumbing through Twitter before dinner time anyway. I have yet to get swept up in a futile mission to buy donuts while reading through Tweets.
Unless the Kamas Chevron has an account…