Doughnuts for Breakfast

 Part of the point of this blog experiment, is to practice often, away from any serious drafts, in an effort to make those projects better. But practice sounds so obligatory. And when I have to practice something, I’d rather do it with friends. Anyone out there want to play along? 

Doughnuts for Breakfast.

This has become a most favourite birthday tradition amongst the kiddos here, and so I was immediately drawn to  the ‘Doughnuts for Breakfast’ writing prompt in ‘Naming The World’.

Set a timer for 20-30 min and free write, weaving this topic in, however your imagination deems fit. Then post your piece  in the comments-you know you want to! Check out and contribute to the first grapefruit jam practice here.

Here is my practice:

I walk out of my bedroom rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My rumpled nightgown literally dusts the floor as I make my way to the kitchen table, blindly plunking myself down on the green vinyl chair, my favourite amongst the mishmash of choices, and wait for my eyes to focus.

It’s the highlight of my morning; the surprise of what daddy has left me for breakfast, and what delicious message is attached to it. The ritual began six months ago. He’d finally found a new job delivering fresh-from-the-bakery bread around town, good thing too, the rent was late and the electric company had called a time or two. It means he’s up and gone way before me, but also that he’s home after I get done with school.  This is way better anyhow. After school, we cook an early supper together, spaghetti and peas maybe, and talk about, just, anything! Some daddies would just turn on the TV.  That’s what my friend Marcie says.

Now I’m ready. I open my eyes proper, and lean over my dish, veiled by a thin tea towel,  like I’m about open a birthday present. I pinch up that cloth in my fingers and whip it away like a magician at the big reveal-Voila!

“A Doughnut!” My own voice surprises me; it feels weird talking out loud to an empty house.

I take a moment to admire my gift. A beautiful circle of plump white dough, just covered with translucent white icing and topped off with a rainbow of sprinkles. I pick it up by its edges, careful not to smoosh in the perfect circle and take a big satisfying mouthful. The soft, pillowy dough collapses against the roof of my mouth, the icing melts on my tongue, and the sprinkles give a good crunch to the whole deal.

Boo to the empty house, I think before I declare, “My Daddy’s the best.”