“I also understand now the other great policeman trait: why cops are both mildly paranoid and desperate for donuts. The need for donuts is a product of the physical work of being outside in the cold coupled with the mental work of trying to find a pattern where there may be none, but where, if there is one, it could be sinister enough…to get somebody hurt.”

-Adam Gopnik, Through the Children’s Gate: A Home in New York

I. The good and the bad

Ironically, they are the perfect shape-a circle, round like a mandala, the symbol of eternity-and this should make them the perfect food. But fried in oil, perhaps drenched in glaze, covered with sugar, frosted, or even plain, they are not good for you. Not even a little bit. There, we have that covered. Donuts are not health food.

Then there is their status. Jill Lightner, a West Coast writer and editor, has called them the “dumb blonde of the pastry world. Buoyant and pillowy as a breast implant.” Patric Kuh, another West Coast writer, described them as a “street thug…strutting past Madeleine and Éclair.” Then there are all the donut/cop jokes that have become so ubiquitous they are now clichés. Recently, we had dinner with some friends at a nice restaurant, and when donuts became the topic of our conversation, someone slid in the catty remark, that when we could be discussing all things literary and theatrical, we were in fact talking about donuts. (The friend who made the catty remark shall remain nameless. However, I freely acknowledge that I was the one who brought up the subject of donuts.) Yet, when the server came, and I asked her about donut shops in the area, her polite server-demeanor vanished to be replaced by a smile and “I just love donuts.” She even gave me a recommendation or two.

But, as the server showed by her spontaneous reaction to donuts, there is something about fried dough that transcends its lowly status, that crosses class lines, that worms its way into people’s appetites, even though they might not like to admit it. Simply put, fried dough is delicious, and donuts are the epitome of fried dough. There is nothing more sublime, say, than a raised donut, newly fried, dipped in glaze, and eaten just as soon as that glaze has dried. There are no thoughts of dumb blondes in the eater’s mind, just pure pleasure as the fat, flour, sugar, and yeast come together to produce something that is impossibly tender and sweet. (Well, maybe there is a point about the dumb blonde.) And I speak from experience. I worked at Dunkin’ Donuts when I was a teenager, and I was just as crazy about donuts as I am now.

This was in the old days, when young girls and women who worked at Dunkin’ Donuts had to wear a pink dress-not too short-a matching apron, with the bow tied just right, white shoes like a nurse, nylons, and the pièce de résistance, a pink headband that had to be bobby pinned in place. For a girl with back-to-the-land yearnings, this uniform was pure torment, and I did not feel “pretty in pink.” But being near so many donuts and being allowed to eat my fill pretty much made up for the pink embarrassment I had to endure. And eat them I did, especially at night, when the bosses were gone and there were just three of us-the baker, the girl out back who finished the donuts, and, me, the server. Until the bars let out, business was usually slow, and there was plenty of time to nibble, chat, and do whatever cleaning I had to do. One night, I ate seven honey-dipped donuts, so fresh that they practically fell apart before I could get them into my mouth. Readers, let me assure you that I was sick that night. But did that stop me from eating donuts the next time I went to work? It did not. My zeal for donuts remained undiminished.

Things have changed since my days at Dunkin’ Donuts. The uniforms are different. Women no longer are forced to endure unrelenting pink, and this is all to the good. Unfortunately, each store no longer has its own baker, and, in Maine at least, the donuts are now made at central points and shipped to stores that may be an hour or so away from the bakery. This means that for Dunkin’ Donut workers, there are no more relaxed, dreamy nights of eating fresh honey-dipped donut after fresh honey-dipped donut. In fact, with this system, it is nearly impossible to get a truly fresh raised donut. A real loss and yet more evidence that things are going downhill fast in our modern times.

Brooding about the state of honey-dipped donuts, I wondered what else had changed and, more important, about the status of donuts in Maine. How many small, independent shops existed in the twilight of Dunkin’ Donuts’s shadow? What about Tim Hortons? And would Krispy Kreme ever come to Maine? With such important matters on my mind, I decided it was time to do some donut research because the sad truth is that I had become stuck in a donut rut and really had no idea about the state of donuts in Maine. For the most part, I have two main sources for donuts, and despite their fall from grace, Dunkin’ Donuts is one of them. Over the years, I have moved from honey-dipped donuts to jelly and cream filled and am now in a glazed stick phase. (The cake donuts have a longer shelf life than the raised donuts.) My other source is Bolley’s Famous Franks, my favorite hole-in-the-wall, which makes its own donuts, the cake kind, and these are so good and so fresh and have such an old-fashioned, homemade taste that I only occasionally stray from Bolley’s to go to Dunkin’ Donuts.

I was not proud of my donut ignorance, but I decided that the old adage is true: It’s never too late to change. So armed with a notebook, a healthy appetite, and accompanied by various members of my family, I embarked on a donut odyssey. Like all odysseys, this one took me to unexpected shores, which in turn led to surprising conclusions. I encountered difficulties, even heartbreak, and also had occasional moments of pure triumph. I am certainly wiser about the state of donuts in Maine and the rest of the country, too, I think.

But first things first.

II. A Brief History of Donuts

“When it comes to donuts New England is a place apart.”

-John T. Edge, Donuts, An American Passion

New England can reasonably claim to be the epicenter of the American donut world, and its donut tradition stretches all the way back to the Pilgrims, who, after staying in Holland, brought fried dough, which the Dutch called olykoeks (oily cakes), to the New World. These ur-donuts had no holes, were yeasted, and had raisins, apples, and almonds in them. John T. Edge, my donut mentor and the inimitable author of Donuts: An American Passion, has described them as “deep fried fruitcake.” A daunting thought, but I would certainly give them a try if the opportunity presented itself. Naturally, as the Dutch settled New York, they brought their olykoeks to this region as well, and fried dough had a firm foothold in what would become the thirteen colonies and then the United States.

Now, it is only fair to mention that according to Mr. Breakfast (the muscular, alter ego of Eddy Chavey, a graduate of the Los Angeles New School of Cooking), petrified fried cakes have been found in prehistoric ruins in the Southwest. This just goes to prove John T. Edge’s point that “fried pastries are universal….Do a little digging and you’ll learn that the Celts claim fried cakes as their own and have long served them on All Hallows’ Eve….Italians dote on zeppole…and South Africans dip koeksister, braids of fried dough, in simple syrup.” Edge goes on to list fried dough from other countries: Greek loukoumades, Indian jakeli, Lebanese awwamaat, and the French pètes de nonne, which translates to “nun’s farts.” (The French certainly have a way with words.) I don’t think it is too much of a stretch to claim that the world is united by its love of fried dough. This might not sound like much, but when you think of all the things that divide us, it is a blessing to find something so humble and so good that actually brings us together. Perhaps the United Nations could proclaim a Fried Dough Day, which would be worldwide and would promote brotherhood, sisterhood, and the love of fried dough. Who knows? Maybe people would be so engrossed in eating fried dough that they would take a break from shooting at each other.

But back to donuts, New England, and coincidently, Maine. According to legend, Sea Captain Hanson Crockett Gregory, from Rockport, Maine, invented the hole in the donut sometime in the mid-1800s. Out at sea, with a holeless, olykoek-type donut in one hand and the ship’s wheel in the other, he supposedly stuck the donut on a spoke of the wheel, thus inventing the donut hole. Is this true? Only Captain Gregory knew for sure, but he somehow managed to convince the Boston Post his story was true and was duly accorded fame for his “invention.” And, voilà! We now have that sweet, often nutmeg-spiced version of fried dough with a hole in the middle. In other words, the quintessential donut. No more deep-fried fruitcake.

From there, donuts, complete with holes, went international, and they did so in a most unusual way-they went to France during World War I with the Salvation Army. Here again, we have the stuff of legend. The Lassies, as the women in the Salvation Army were called, did their best to help the troops. They darned socks and patched uniforms. In 1917, four Lassies traveled to the camp of the 1^st Ammunition Train in France. The Lassies gave chocolate bars to the soldiers, but the soldiers wanted more. In fact, they wanted pie, but there were no bake ovens for the Lassies to use. However, they did have a kettle, oil, and the ingredients for donuts, which John T. Edge describes as “a symbol of American home and hearth, a gustatory manifestation of the ideals for which the soldiers fought.” From that first day, when two of the Lassies fried 150 donuts, word spread, and other Lassies soon began making donuts for the troops. Eventually, Lassies, often only two of them, would go on to make as many as 2,500 in one day for the grateful soldiers. Hence, the term “doughboy” was born. You might die miserably in the trench or be poisoned by mustard gas, but at least there were donuts to be had before the horrors of battle. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

After World War I, the doughboys brought their love of donuts back to the United States, and to keep up with the increasing demand, Adolph Levitt, in the mid-1920s, had engineers invent a donut-making machine. Levitt, who owned a chain of bakeries, then developed a standardized mix. Donuts thus become so widespread and so popular that according to Mr. Breakfast, “By 1934…the World’s Fair in Chicago declared the doughnut ‘the food hit of the Century Of Progress.’”

In 1937, in North Carolina, Krispy Kreme bubbled onto the scene, with their famous raised, glazed donuts. Their website states that this “secret recipe came from a French Chef from New Orleans,” and there is no reason to doubt this story. Interestingly, though, Krispy Kremes have become the Wal-Mart of the donut world, the rampaging chain that puts the mom and pop donut stores out of business. Yet they have a devoted following as well, legions of ardent donut fans who just can’t wait for their morning fix of honey dips and coffee. After having one (well, maybe two) of Krispy Kreme’s famous honey dips in Penn Station in New York City, I can sympathize with the fans. I’m for the little guy as much as the next person, but those honey dips are incredibly good. However, Mainers who don’t like to travel (and there are a fair number who don’t) will have to take my word for it. Krispy Kreme only comes as far north as Massachusetts.

Last but not least we turn to Dunkin’ Donuts, and we will have come full circle. (Yes, I know. Tim Horton’s donuts have wedged their way into the market, but those donuts are so small and so dry that the chain is no better than a big commercial bakery such as Hostess.) As hard as it is to believe, Dunkin’ Donuts came well after Krispy Kreme, but it has the advantage of being conceived in Massachusetts, the very same state that saw the arrival of the Pilgrims and their olykoeks.

In the late 1940s, William Rosenberg had a “fleet of canteen trucks,” and he sold donuts, sandwiches, and coffee to factory workers in Boston. A couple of years later, Rosenberg ditched the donuts on wheels and started the Open Kettle donut shop. Finally, in 1950, in Quincy, Massachusetts, Dunkin’ Donuts was officially born, and how they have grown over the past fifty years. Their website notes that they serve more than “3 million customers per day” and “[a]t the end of 2007, there were 7,988 Dunkin’ Donuts stores worldwide…”

I know I am probably belaboring the point, but what a shame Dunkin’ Donuts has decided to do away with individual bakers in each shop. They might have gained efficiency, but the cost has been quality. At the shop I worked at, there was an attention to freshness that bordered on fanaticism. When the donuts were first made, they went on a certain colored paper. After a period of time, the unsold donuts were moved to another color, and after that they went to buckets that were collected by a local pig farmer. Yes, the donuts were made from a commercial mix, but given that they are very fresh, commercial-mix donuts are not to be scorned.

My husband and I are hoping that the high cost of gas will force Dunkin’ Donuts to go back to its old ways, that it will be just as economical to hire individual bakers for each store as it is to transport the donuts fifty miles or more. We also wonder at what point efficiency actually becomes a hindrance, but of course that is a topic for another essay.

Armed with a history of donuts, it was time for me to begin my donut odyssey, to check out small donut shops, and I started out with both an advantage and a handicap. In my favor, there is my prodigious appetite for donuts. I just never seem to get tired of them, no matter how many I eat. However, time and resources did not allow me to go much farther than sixty miles. Nevertheless, even though I wasn’t able to travel through the whole state of Maine, much less New England, I learned a lot, and maybe the most important lesson is that no matter how many donuts you eat, you can still discover something new about them.

III. My Donut Odyssey

“We devalue the things that give us pleasure.”

-John T. Edge

On the first foray, with my husband, Clif, as my companion, we planned to visit three donut shops and cover 153 miles. Unfortunately, as Mike, my daughter’s boyfriend, would point out, there is no such thing as a Donut Lane in our state, no street dedicated solely to donuts, where the donut obsessed can stagger from shop to shop, nibbling all the way. No, in Maine we must drive, and I expect this is true in other places as well.

Our first stop was Blue Sky Bakery in Gardiner, Maine, a small city on the Kennebec River. Gardiner has gone through various cycles of prosperity, with industries ranging from shipping to ice and finally to factories. All these have passed, with nothing really to replace them, and Gardiner, like so many cities and towns in Maine, is more than a little threadbare. It still has lovely old homes from its shipping days and a downtown with glimmers of a more prosperous time, but Gardiner has become a city with no good way of supporting itself, and its residents must travel to other places to work. It is a city without a hub.

I am sorry to report that the donuts from Blue Sky Bakery, a small building tucked on Water Street, seem to reflect the hard times that have fallen on the city. We bought a dozen donuts, including chocolate, plain, and cinnamon. Without exception, they were as dry, bland, and boring as any box of commercially made donuts you might buy in a grocery store.

A little disappointed but still eager for more donuts, we headed to Frosty’s Donut & Coffee Shop in Brunswick, Maine, home to Bowdoin College and right next door to Bath Iron Works, a shipyard that employs thousands of workers. Like Gardiner, Brunswick’s factories have all closed, but this town has managed to maintain a vibrancy that has eluded many other Maine communities. The downtown has good restaurants, a health food store, coffee shops, a bookstore, and even a small movie theater that shows art and independent films. Frosty’s is on the main street, and our eagerness faded as soon as we pulled into a parking place in front of the shop. The windows were dark, and when I got out of the car for a closer look, our suspicions were confirmed; Frosty’s was closed, even though it was Saturday afternoon. Closed? How could that be? Well, it seems they close at 2:00, and we were there at 3:30. We would have to come back earlier in the day.

Disappointed, I returned to the car, and we drove to Portland, Maine’s biggest city, which is as zippy as Brunswick only more so. This small, arty city has an abundance of good restaurants, a fine art museum, and a professional theater company that produces first-rate plays. Best of all, urban renewal spared much of the downtown, which still has lovely old buildings from the 1800s. Our target was Tony’s Donut Shop, and from satisfied customers as well as from reviews on the Internet, I had heard good things about their donuts.

Tony’s Donut Shop is a bustling, workaday donut shop off Congress St., one of the city’s major streets. That the donuts are made on the premises and served fresh is beyond doubt. The shop is open enough for the kitchen to be visible from the counter. We ordered the usual donuts-plain, chocolate, cinnamon, honey dipped-and I even added a raspberry bismark to the mix.

Sitting down with the donuts and bismark, Clif and I began nibbling. We nibbled and nibbled until it looked as though rodents (take your pick) had been feasting on the donuts. Our verdict? The donuts were good enough, better than Blue Sky, but unremarkable. This bismark reminded me of a Dunkin’ Donuts bismark, and the rest of the donuts tasted no better than a fresh, commercial donut. In other words, they were all right but a bit of a letdown. Closing our eyes as we ate, we couldn’t even tell the difference between plain sugared and chocolate sugared. (However, fairness compels me to add that our friend Carol, when faced with the same task a day or two later, was able to distinguish the two.) Needless to say, we were expecting more than all right. But what? Was it the idea of a donut we were looking for? Is the donut really so elusive? Is little hole-in-the wall Bolley’s really the pinnacle in Maine?

Our first donut day ended with a case of mild indigestion as well as disillusionment. Still, we are nothing if not persistent, and we vowed to return to Frosty’s the next week, on Saturday. This we did, in the morning, and much to our astonishment, we found that Frosty’s was closed again. It seems I had neglected to note that along with closing at 2:00, they are also closed both Saturday and Sunday. A donut shop closed on Saturday and Sunday? Very odd!

Defeated but not beaten, I decided to leave Frosty’s for the time being and head to the midcoast, to Rockport and Camden, to check out Willow Bake Shoppe and Boynton-McKay Food Co. My donut companion this time was Mike, my daughter Shannon’s aforementioned boyfriend, who was between jobs. Liam, the family dog, also came with us, and we brought water to cleanse our palates.

Willow Bake Shoppe, on Route 1 in Rockport, Maine, is in a small, unassuming yellow building, the kind you might drive past if you’re a tourist. But its modest exterior-appropriately New England-belies the fact that this shop features some of the best donuts in Maine. In other words, Mike and I hit donut pay dirt.

As we entered, we had to pass through a gauntlet of regulars, old men clustered around tables and out for their morning cup of coffee. We nodded pleasantly, but they just stared. Undeterred, we went to the counter and looked at the donuts. How many to order? A dozen, we decided. After all, we had to bring some back for Shannon and Clif, and we wanted to have a large enough variety to sample. After the first bite, we were tempted to order another dozen, but we refrained, knowing there were more donuts to sample, and, anyway, one dozen donuts is more than enough for four people.

But, as Mike observed, it’s not every day you find the perfect donut-moist, tender, flavorful-a donut that makes you say “Wow!” when you eat it. And Willow Bake Shoppe’s donuts are as near perfect as any donut I’ve ever tasted. Best of all, the chocolate is rich and deep. Willow Bake Shoppe only seems to make cake donuts (perhaps there should be another visit to confirm this?), but no matter. A good cake donut is very fine indeed, and Liam wholeheartedly agreed.

In good spirits, we drove to Camden, to Boynton-McKay Food Co., which turned out to be a restaurant that made donuts, and on the day we were there, they only had plain donuts. After buying a half dozen, we headed to a park in town that overlooked the harbor. It was a fine, sunny day, and the deep blue water sparkled. A perfect backdrop for eating donuts and comparing Willow Bake Shoppe’s with Boynton-McKay’s. The latter’s donuts were good-they had a pleasing crispness on the outside-but in terms of texture and taste, they just couldn’t compare with Willow Bake Shoppe’s donuts. However, it is probably not fair to compare donuts made in a restaurant with donuts made in a donut shop. Still, Boynton-McKay’s donuts far surpassed the ones we had from Blue Sky Bakery in Gardiner.

Finally, I must confess that on that fine, sparkling day, we ate way too many donuts and came home feeling sluggish and slow. Both Mike and I were a little glad (as well as a little sorry) that Willow Bake Shoppe is fifty miles from where we live. It is easier to resist temptation when it is not next door. Despite my love of donuts, I do know that moderation is in order.

Frosty’s still beckoned in Brunswick, and on the way to visit our other daughter in New York, we decided to stop by for another try. It was not Saturday; it was not 2:00 P.M. We were ready for donuts. But as we pulled into a parking place, we saw what was becoming a familiar sight: dark windows at Frosty’s. Nevertheless, just to be sure, I got out of the car and walked to the front door, which had a small, handwritten sign on it. The sign read “Closed because of sickness.” Strike three. No Frosty’s donuts for our trip to New York. Like General MacArthur, I vowed, “I will return.”

When we returned from New York, time was running out. Mike’s new job would start in a week or so, and there was this donut piece to finish. Frosty’s was very much on my mind as was the Italian Bakery, a shop that sold donuts as well as other baked goods. The two were in easy drive of each other, so Mike and I set out early one morning to go first to Frosty’s and then to the Italian Bakery. Before heading out, I called Frosty’s. I had been burned three times, and there was no point in driving to Brunswick, about forty-five minutes away, if the darned shop was closed for some other reason, say, an elopement or the birth of a baby. But wonder of wonders, someone answered the phone, and when I asked if the shop was open, I got an affirmative, “Yes, dear.”

Off we went, on another beautiful sunny day. All the way to Brunswick, Mike and I speculated about what we would find. Would this trip, the fourth for me, be worth it? Or would we be disappointed? Would the donuts be boring and bland? We drove into a parking space not far from Frosty’s. The window signs were lit and the shop was bright. Frosty’s was indeed open at last. Hallelujah, I thought.

This word of praise proved to be remarkably prescient. As Mike and I walked into the shop, we stopped. A song about Jesus played on the sound system, and on the walls, there were so many pictures of Jesus that for a moment all Mike and I could do was stand there and gape. Prayer cards were stacked in little stands scattered around the shop, and one whole table was devoted to religious literature. Clearly, this was a donut shop with a mission.

The donuts themselves beckoned to us from the cases, and just behind them, I could see the kitchen and a man in a white uniform, which indicated that if nothing else, the donuts would at least be fresh. In our usual greedy way, we ordered a dozen donuts, including several honey-dipped donuts and an assortment of plain, sugared, and cinnamon. Back to the car we went, where we could eat and comment without being overheard. One bite of a honey dipped was all it took. Immediately, I was transported back to the old days at Dunkin’ Donuts, where the donuts were so fresh and tender that it would be easy to whip through a half dozen without really trying. Maine readers, take note: If you love Krispy Kreme donuts but can’t drive to Massachusetts, then head immediately to Frosty’s. Do not even hesitate. The honey-dipped donuts are terrific, and the glazed cake donuts are just as tender and delectable. However, the plain cake donuts tasted like a standard commercial donut, so my advice is to stick to the honey-dipped donuts and get them as often as you can, Monday through Friday, until 2:00 P.M. and barring any sickness. Nowadays, it’s rare to find raised donuts this fresh, and I can’t think of another shop in Maine where you can get them this way. Even if you live far away, Frosty’s is definitely worth a pilgrimage.

From there it was on to Lewiston, Maine, to the Italian Bakery. Lewiston is Maine’s second largest city, but unfortunately it bears more of a resemblance to Gardiner than it does to Portland. Once a thriving mill city with a downtown so enticing that my mother-in-law used to travel eighty miles to go shopping there, Lewiston has become so rundown that it has developed a reputation for being tough.

After the sublime experience we had at Frosty’s, it was not surprising that the Italian Bakery was a bit of a letdown. The donuts were perfectly good-under normal circumstances I would not turn them down-but they tasted like standard donuts from any commercial bakery.

For now, at least, my donut odyssey had come to an end. Conclusions? Donuts, even those made at small shops, have a sameness of taste, which I have come to think of as a “commercial” taste. Given that the donuts are fresh, this is not a bad thing, but it’s nothing to get excited about, either. The donuts from Blue Sky Bakery, Tony’s Donut Shop, and the Italian Bakery all fell under this category. An interesting aside: I called Tony’s Donut Shop to find out if their donuts were made from scratch, and the man I spoke to was quite vague, repeatedly insisting that the donuts were made from “many different kinds of flour.” John T. Edge, whom I’ve regrettably only met in print, has put it bluntly: “a decided minority [of shops]…make their donuts from scratch.” Without direct evidence, it would be unfair to leap to conclusions, but let’s just say that if something tastes commercial, even if it is made from scratch, then the bakers should reassess their recipes. On the other hand, freshness and technique matter a great deal-as Frosty’s illustrated-and a light touch can raise the standard of any donut.

It was a bit of a blow to discover that many small donut shops made donuts that tasted pretty much the same way as the donuts from chains did. But there you have it. Most odysseys involve a loss of innocence, and mine was no different.

However, there were the “happy few” whose donuts were far, far better than average, and it is my good fortune to live within driving distance of them. Those shops are Bolley’s-just down the road-Willow Bake Shoppe, fifty or so miles away but still within driving distance, and Frosty’s, about forty-five minutes from our house. From the very first taste, it is more than obvious that these donuts are a cut above most donuts. In each case, they have a singular taste that doesn’t remotely resemble that of any other donut. These are the Holy Grail of donuts, the donuts that all true donut lovers seek but so rarely find, the donuts that come to us in dreams.

Speaking of dreams, I have a dream, a fantasy of sorts, that John T. Edge, who hails from the South, would come as far north as central Maine and that we would go on a donut tour together, a long loop that could be done in a day. It would take fortitude, but I suspect he would be more than up for the challenge. We would start at Bolley’s early in the morning, when their donuts are fresh out of the fat and still a little warm. Commenting on the sublimeness of their cinnamon donuts, we would then hurry to Frosty’s, all the time praying that the shop would be open. Since this is a fantasy tour, the shop would of course be open, and marveling at the honey-dipped donuts, Edge would observe that these were certainly as good as Krispy Kreme donuts. From there, it would be off to Willow Bake Shoppe in Rockport, the home of Captain Hanson Crocket Gregory, the man supposedly responsible for the hole in the donut. Whatever the truth behind the donut-hole story, we would be in complete agreement that the donuts from Willow Bake Shoppe were “some” donuts, and I would perhaps introduce “wicked good” into Edge’s vocabulary. After all these donuts, we would need a bit of a break, and Camden, on a sparkling day, would be the perfect spot to rest. Finding a bench in the park overlooking the shimmering harbor, we would discuss the various donuts we had eaten, and I expect Edge would want to compare them to donuts he had eaten in other parts of the country. But in the end, Edge would return to a line from his own Donuts: An American Passion. That is, when it comes to donuts, New England is a place apart.