Sunday morning I participated in the first of what will doubtlessly become a Baton Rouge tradition for many pious families — I went to Krispy Kreme after a rare appearance at Sunday church services.
Now, for those of you who’ve been living under a rock for the past week, this medium-sized Southern college town has a new Krispy Kreme, conveniently located down Siegen Lane from my parents’ church.
As we inched through the drive-thru, and traffic lined up down the street, we spotted half of the congregation in the crowded store. In fact, I am quite certain that EVERYONE from my church was inside the store, save the pastor and the lady who plays the piano.
It was kind of like the bar in Cheers for the overly religious and Southern — everyone knew everyone else’s name, and they all gossiped as glaze dripped down their faces.
In fact, I began to wonder why we didn’t just hold Mass inside of the Krispy Kreme, as the sheer fervor the congregation showed for the cake, chocolate covered and lemon-filled pieces of God’s great creation was matched only by its spirit in singing the closing hymn of the recently ended service.
The priest could have stood behind the counter, dousing people with glaze rather than holy water. And just think, we could have prayed to his hole-y excellency.
As I witnessed this display of hot, glazed homage, I began to wonder. Maybe we mistranslated the creation story. Maybe on the seventh day, God created doughnuts.
And God saw that they were good. So he sent divine inspiration to Mr. Kreme.
But I digress — amidst this madness, which was so great that the newly-blessed masses were parking in overflow gravel parking lots and being directed by overworked traffic officers, a band played.
That’s right, two dudes with drums and an electric guitar played in the parking lot of Krispy Kreme at 8:30 a.m. on Sunday morning. I’d think that they were just losers, but the Krispy Kreme staff never paused to question the display.
Perhaps they were so moved by the glazed one that they felt moved by the spirit and played — kind of like the Little Drummer Boy at Christ’s birth.
After this overwhelming display, we made the pilgrimage back home, with a box of treats to feast upon.
Now, I don’t want to be excommunicated from the Baton Rouge Church of Breakfast Pastry, but Krispy Kremes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.
If I was wandering in the desert, lost with Abraham after being kicked out of Egypt, I might take a Krispy Kreme over that manna stuff they ate.
But only if the doughnut was lemon-filled.