Chicago Midway Terminal B Dunkin (with chocolate icing and sprinkles)

March 10, 2020: I am traveling to New Orleans via Chicago. North to go South. It is Breadhole Jr’s first flight, on what happens to be on his 365th day of life, the eve of his first birthday (delayed 24 hours, alas, by this leap year). A Noon flight that contradicts his daily napping schedule.

He performs well on the first leg, but his new-experience exhaustion and shifted schedule makes eating the complementary pretzels on our first leg an ill-advised choice. In the face of possible tantrum, I acquiesce that small pleasure.

We disembark our plane with the intent to eat during the layover. Rounding the corner from the gate, the fluorescent pink DD’s of Dunkin catch my eyes immediately. 

“Uh, okay,” My wife says, preoccupied with the little boy strapped to her chest. “I wouldn’t dream of eating that,” my mom says, middle age having clearly stunted her imagination.

It costs $1.50, possibly the cheapest 290 calories in the terminal. I choose the chocolate sprinkled for its aesthetic familiarity. Because it is Noon, and because we have another two hours flight time forthcoming, I forgo the coffee. The overhead menu promises a St Patrick’s Day donut but none are to be seen: tragic.

My donut itself is basically a shitty bagel. A bagel is also bread with a hole but not as good as a donut. Anyone who says differently is a liar. The chocolate icing has a sturdier texture than the donut. Stringy. My sprinkles are sparse. The mass-fried nature of Dunkin means that the flavor is stale and uninspired, the after-images of endless pastry mediocurity conflicting on my tongue. It tastes the way Midway smells. Like Midway, it gets me where I need to go. Like Midway, I think nothing of it once it’s gone.