The Outliers

The mornings that had nothing to do with breakfast

I don’t remember what I ate for breakfast on a normal school day, but I could tell you about all the outliers. And the strange thing that I’m realizing as I write these down is how little the food itself had to do with why these memories are still so vivid.

There was Mardorf’s, the bakery at least two towns over that I would go to with my dad on Sunday mornings. We would always get two boxes; one for us and one as a surprise for friends. My favorite was the sugar twist, but at the counter, I got overwhelmingly excited to pick out the donuts that went in the surprise box. They had all the classics, and we filled the box with a dozen every time.

When we left the bakery, I was once again more excited about delivering the surprise box than eating my own. As we approached the house, my dad and I would always review the plan. First, walk up quietly and all low-key. Then put the box of donuts on the doormat, ring the bell, and RUN. I would follow the shortest path to the car (even when it was across the lawn) and my dad would wait just until I closed the door, and then we’d be off. Overflowing with laughter and nervousness and joy, we’d drive home and run in the door and I couldn’t wait to tell my mom what we’d done (like she didn’t already know). Sure, I ate my donut eventually, but that’s a secondary memory to the ring-and-dash.

I’m sure those friends called later in the day to thank us, but I wasn’t waiting for the “they loved it!” Even thinking back over this memory, it strikes me as almost impossible today. Location sharing and Ring cameras and communication styles and posting and our increasing need for recognition and gratification would… honestly… completely ruin this experience. The closest I’ve come to replicating it was during the heart of the pandemic. One day I baked cinnamon rolls and drove around Brooklyn delivering them to friends. I knew everyone would be home, so I didn’t even call ahead. I put each one in an individual container and would smear on some cream cheese frosting right before I handed it off. Because joy was at a premium those days, the first reaction was usually shock, followed by elation.

Funny enough, my other favorite breakfast memory also has to do with donuts (I don’t even really like donuts?!). If we weren’t picking up donuts from Mardorf’s, we were making them but gasp not from scratch. We would buy Pillsbury biscuit dough, stamp out the centers with a small cookie cutter, put both pieces into a paper bag filled with cinnamon and sugar, shake the crap out of them, and then deep fry them. OK, this time around I distinctly remember being very excited to eat them.

One thing about me is I love to dance. I’m that person on the subway with my earphones in always bopping. I’m the person at Karaoke who is dancing even if I never sing a song. I was simply made to move. Dropping the dough into the paper bag and then having it be my responsibility to shake them up and cover them in cinnamon and sugar, and then getting to test how good of a job I did by eating them, was all the right kinds of dopamine (accomplishing a task) and endorphins (exercise) and serotonin (belly happy). I’m sure I shook that bag so hard that at least one time it opened and made a mess, but my mom never let that stop us.

I was lucky enough to grow up in a house where easily 75% of what we ate was made from scratch. I have no idea why my mom decided to make these donuts with a store-bought shortcut, and no complaints, but I think she’d cringe that one of my favorite food memories came out of a can. You know the POP the biscuit dough makes coming out of the can? Best marketing ever.

Lastly, and maybe the biggest rule-break of them all, is Burger King’s French Toast sticks. Let me say that again, Burger King’s French Toast sticks. My mom’s side of the family is rich with food culture. My dad’s side… is not. That meant when my dad was responsible for “feeding” my sister and me, we always broke the rules. If my parents were going out on a Saturday night, he got us McDonald’s for dinner. And on the mornings he dropped me at school, we’d pull into the Burger King drive-thru for French Toast sticks. How did I not get syrup all over the seat? Actually, maybe I did.

There’s something about breaking a rule first thing in the morning. Most rule-breaking happens at night, when you’re tired and a little reckless. This was 7:45am, lunchboxes and homework and the whole dutiful day still ahead of us, and we were already getting away with something. I’d walk into my first class buzzing, practically vibrating in my seat (okay, fine, maybe that part was the sugar). I don’t really remember the sticks. What I remember is the conspiracy of it, and my dad with that childlike grin he got whenever the two of us did something we technically weren’t supposed to.

Every optimization rule we have now would red-flag these breakfasts. What to eat, when to eat, what to eat in what order. Gosh, I can feel the Sunday sugar crash from here.

But the sugar was never the point. What these mornings have in common is that every one of them took effort, and not one of them was for show. Someone had to drive two towns over. Someone had to shake that bag until it burst. No one filmed the ring-and-dash, no one posted the cinnamon rolls, no one was keeping score. The food was just the thing my hands were doing while the real moment happened.

When I was a kid, that was just how things worked. The slow, slightly chaotic, no-one’s-watching version was the only one on offer. As an adult, the defaults flipped. Convenience is automatic now, and so is being seen, so the slow, unseen version is something I have to choose on purpose. Drive the cinnamon rolls around Brooklyn without calling ahead. Put the phone down, not for the quiet, but for the moments that take effort and break the “rules” of adulthood.

Food is often my medium for that, and I hope you find yours.