Mr. Ronnie's: Breadhole on the Edge of Forever

March 11th, 2020:

We are in Louisiana for my sister Emma's wedding to her fiance Jonathan. Jonathan was born and raised in Lafourche Parish, in a town called Mathews, about an hour south of New Orleans and half-hour north of Houma. None of those distances meant anything to me in the three years I'd known him leading up to the wedding, but I wanted them to, so in planning our week-long trip to the wedding I made sure we had time to visit his hometown. To see his old haunts, his childhood spots. To understand where he came from. Oh, and to visit his local used bookstore.

Earlier in the day we celebrated Breadhole Jr.'s first birthday with beignets at Cafe DuMonde, the iconic coffee shop in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Even that morning we can see signs of the time. Of the virus.

We were all aware of the virus before leaving on the trip, and it's been a constant anxiety for my wife and I. Here we are, with both sides of my family and her parents in New Orleans, one of America's large tourist cities, as the pandemic has started to spread across the United States. Octogenarian Grandparents; middle-agers with pre-existing conditions; a Baba with a lung disease. We're behaving as safely as we can, but the empty carriages and roomy streets of the French Quarter on a warm spring morning are hard to miss. Something has changed.

The happy occasions are burdened by the pressing present, and the knowledge that the Wedding week may not simply signify a metamorphosis for Emma and Jonathan but for everyone else, too, and not in any way we'd choose. It's on their mind too. It's on everyone's mind. Thankfully, Jonathan has something special planned for our trip to Houma.

Mr. Ronnie's Donuts has been a 24-hour fried treat haunt in Houma, LA for three decades. Its original owner died a long time ago, and it since franchised out for a brief period of time. Jonathan says he used to come here when he was younger. We arrive at 9 p.m, roughly twelve hours after it's reasonable to eat a fresh donut on a normal day, but abnormal times call for abnormal delights. The shelves are fully loaded, and the nice boys behind the counter probably pleasantly baked.

Options: Glazed, strawberry, blueberry, wedding cake, creme-filled, jelly-filled, angel food, devil's food, etc. etc. etc.

etc, etc. etc.

Jonathan orders a dozen glazed, while I order a smorgasbord of donuts with the intention of sharing them with the rest of the wedding party the next morning (I do, and they're mostly well received). I try one of Jonathan's glazed while we're at the shop. Chewy but not too yeasty. They melt in my mouth with a stronger than usual vanilla flavor and a glaze that is not too sticky, not too flaky. It's a perfect 9p.m. Donut. A perfect donut at the right moment in time.

I share my bounty with the extended families the next morning. The next few days are full of cheer and thoughtful enjoyment of the city, of one another, of the wedding. Everything passes like a dream as our activities correspond to the continually closing city. Streetcars air public health messages on their Info Screens. Twitter messages urge hand washing, distancing. My friends back in Indiana tell me they're now working from home; that local schools have closed; that they've lost jobs.

The day after the wedding. The mood has changed. NOLA's Sunday edition shows recorded deaths and labels the city an epicenter of the epidemic. I read a copy while packing, glancing over a paragraph at a time. Beneath a pile of clothes, I find the remaining Mr. Ronnie's leftovers. Tossing them out feels like closure on a trip, and a period of time when the future was mercifully put on hold.

I haven't really wanted a donut since.