My belief in God may be inexorably linked to donuts. I realized this as I passed by the local donut shop, and breathed in a lungful of fried dough and sugar. Lead me not into temptation, I sayeth unto the baker, as I go forth past the dual sins of grease and chocolate jimmies. How could this path lead to my eventual salvation?
Sunday mornings with my father. He understood very well what it would take to get three boys out of bed and into their church-going clothes: bribery. Back in those days, we were in for a session of Sunday School and then a portion of the regular service sitting next to our parents. The smells I associate with the church itself are not nearly as pleasant as the aforementioned pastry. Sunday School was in the basement, and most of the rooms smelled a little too much like Play-Doh to be actual places of worship. Upstairs in the pews (pun anticipated), I remember the musty odor of the hymnals and the stacks of envelopes that I used for drawing rather than offering.
If we made it through the service, as the congregation made its way out into the middle of their Sunday, we began to make our orders. My older brother favored Long Johns, while the younger was fond of anything that looked fancy (read "sprinkles"). I looked for the maximum chocolate delivery system (chocolate frosting tends to pool in old-fashioneds). We got our box and headed back out to the station wagon, but our treasures never made it all the way back home. Once we were fat and happy again, we were released back into our play-clothes and were free to run off the sugar high that came to us every Sunday.
Do you think it's a coincidence that "The Simpsons" are on Sunday nights? It's the eight o'clock service at the church of fried dough.