The thing about doughnuts is that they have to be fresh. Super fresh. Obviously, I am fond of the brown butter version. I can resist the berry version most days. But the nutella filled doughnut is my Waterloo. Difficult to share, I was tempted to go back and buy them out. Instead, I just added Kingfield Farmer's market to my ical. Most doughnuts are not fresh enough for me, I have been blessed with Fat Tuesdays rose filled doughnuts in Krakow, hot from the fryer with a thin glaze dripping down my fingers. I wandered from bakery to bakery with my 2 children eating the amazing puffs of fluffy sweetness. At the time, 1987, certain meats and chocolate were still rationed. The shock of martial law had eased, but the economic situation had not improved significantly. Living with my kids grandparents was a window into a lifestyle I could not have imagined. Yet, there was something so seductive about the slower pace of their difficult lifestyle. And there were the paczki, fresh everyday except Sunday. The first time I ate them my daughter was 18 months and it was our first trip to Krakow. We had flown to Frankfurt and then taken the train across West Germany, through East Germany and then into Wojciech Jaruzelski's Poland. Jet lagged, relaxing in the the garden with her Polish relatives we sipped tea and ate hot paczki as she splashed in a basin on water. I felt I had been transported to another planet. A place where my American dollars opened a world of endless treasure in the midst of common scarcity. What a relief that on Sunday mornings I can, again, simply walk down the street, to the Bogart Loves Bakery stand, and eat my fill of warm, sweet doughnuts. And without carrying my passport, or struggling with my embarrassingly unimpressive Polish language skills. And there is no homeland security, no customs declaration. My mantra: go early, buy as many as you can afford.