No-knead bread

Bread, Richard Artschwager (1966)

A no-knead bread recipe is only a recipe in the sense that it exists as a set of instructions involving the combination of a set of ingredients. But the form of the recipe is fluid, unfixed and malleable in the way that things that are simple can often be. Any search engine will produce pages and pages of no-knead bread recipes.

Recipes found on sites like Pinch of Yum. Steamy Kitchen. Breadtopia. An Italian in my Kitchen. Brown Eyed Baker. Leite’s Culinaria. Jo Cooks. Jenny Can Cook. Basics with Babish. Sweet C’s Designs. Budget bytes. Simply So Good. Aline Made. The Spruce Eats. Frugal Living NW. Martha Stewart. Le Creuset. Sally’s Baking Addiction. Visit Tuscany. Girl Versus Dough. Pinch Me, I’m Eating! No Knead Bread Central. A stack of Dishes. Smitten Kitchen. Bless This Mess. Pinterest. Austin American-Statesman. Crunchy sweet. And so on.

The most popular iteration of the recipe—the one that spawned a million reposts, reiterations, and augmentations—is the no-knead bread recipe created by Mark Bittman in the New York Times and adapted from Jim Lahey’s recipe. Lahey is the creator of Sullivan Street Bakery, which opened in 1994 and now has two locations in Chelsea and Midtown. The bakery claims to provide bread for Manhattan’s best restaurants. The Times recipe came in 2006 and has been embedded in the culture of a largely self-taught amateur home-baking community.

Still from “No Knead Bread | Bread Recipe | The New York Times” by the New York Times (2006)

The beauty at the core of the no-knead bread recipe lies in its use of time. Time is the catalyst that allows for the growth of the dough, for the yeast to react to the enzymes in the flour, for the release of the carbon dioxide and alcohol that causes the dough to bloom and for the pattern of crevices in the crumb to build. But this a function of any baked good that relies on proofing for its rise and flavor.

Here, time is given an expanded role. In a basic white bread recipe, time enters the process in periodic intervals of rising punctuated by repeated interventions. The concept at the heart of the no-knead is the simple yet radical notion that by intervening in the leavening process as little as possible and leaving the shaggy mound of dough to itself and the air around it while doubling the amount time that it's allowed to proof, a high-quality boule—complete with a thick crust an airy crumb—will be produced. It asks and answers the question: can an impressive loaf of rustic bread can be forged through time and time alone?

It’s worth noting that there is actually some minor kneading to be done in the usual no-knead bread recipe. I suppose titles like “minor-knead” or “less-knead” don’t match the level of incantation-like chantability that “no-knead” can claim. But there is some hand work: the initial dough creation can be frustrating when tried with the wooden spoon, the dough sticky and wet; I prefer to use my hands—easier utensils to convince the globs to fall away from—and this act of bringing the dough together, even to the point where it can only just be called dough, feels like a kneading

Bread on the Head of the Prodigal Son, Salvador Dali (1936)

After the initial 18 hour rise comes another moment of kneading, though barely that. The dough is pulled over itself several times—a kind of coaxing through rearrangement—before being formed into a ball. Where a regular loaf of bread requires forceful, intensive movements from the baker’s hands, the no-knead recipe requires the inverse: the baker must step away from the dough to allow time to take responsibility over the kinetic energy supplied in traditional recipes by the body but in the no-knead by the act of doing nothing. Rather than engineering transformation through stuttering bursts, the long, languishing moment stretched wide becomes the primary conductor.


The week of Thanksgiving, despite beginning a new work schedule at a new job that required I come in the late afternoon and leave late at night, I pledged that I would bring parker rolls—a baked good I had never attempted before—to a holiday lunch that included family members I hadn’t seen in a decade and a half, at least. Of course there was no time to make the rolls and I found myself in a familiar situation, a result of me agreeing to do something due to a sense of expectation put upon me by myself and imagined others without any kind of realistic assessment of my resources or capabilities.

Paige suggested I make the no-knead bread. It was a good suggestion, the essential aspects of the bread creation would while I slept. So I threw a loaf together and let it grow through the early morning, but even allowing 7 hours for the first rise completes less than half of the recommended time. The dough going into the second two-hour rise— a rise that would be completed with only enough time to get the loaf in the oven and cooked through before walking out the door—was obviously underproofed. Part of what makes bread baking so enthralling and often defeating is how—in every stage of the long process of bringing the dough together, kneading the dough, letting it proof (often in multiple stages), and the bake, where minutes can mean the difference between under or over baked—there’s an opportunity for a flaw to reveal itself, sometimes revealing the fate of the eventual loaf long before it will be realized.

I personally have never made a loaf of bread that I didn’t think could be improved or where there couldn’t have been something done differently. That’s why the no-knead recipe is so popular, so ubiquitous, why so many of the nearly 1,000 commenters on the Times recipe begin with some iteration of the phrase “I’ve made this for years.” It requires so few steps, so little physical intervention, and relies so heavily on the act of waiting in its creation that it allows few opportunities to commit an error. If you can leave it alone for 12 to 18 hours, it’s nearly impossible to fuck up.

Caricature No. 1 (Bread and Match), Koshiro Onchi (1948)

When there just isn’t enough of a distance between the moment you begin the loaf to the moment it must be carried out the door, you must do what you can. One of the tenants of bread-making, or at least my bread-making, is that you must see it through. Even when the dough is obviously imperfect, it must be made. It’s a part of why bread making gives me such anxiety, why I don’t make bread as much as I would like to.

On Thanksgiving, I made the imperfect loaf of bread and it came out of the oven diminutive and flat, obviously underproofed even before cutting it open to reveal its dense crumb. But even though I knew it would turn out this way hours before, I served the bread anyway. It was still bread. When you bit through the crust, you still found a yeasty surface suitable for spreading butter over. The loaf was still devoured.

For me to bake as much I’d like, I have to push myself past a reactionary and narcissistic attitude towards imperfection that I carry in many aspects of my life and my self-perception. Imperfection should not just be tolerated, it should be the altar I genuflect before. There’s nothing more apart of life than all of its little fissures, all that is unexpected and unchangeable, in  all that is linear and unceasing in time, both endless and not enough.

Last night, I put together another dough, another prayer made of dry-active yeast and salt and flour and water. This time I allowed nearly 18 hours for the first rest. Not quite 18 hours, I didn’t have quite enough time. But it will be a good loaf. There was time and time created space for the dough to slowly become itself unimpeded, the air inside it unfurling into hundreds of small stars.

Beef cheek tacos

It’s been one of this intense and strange week and since it’s the holidays, that can only mean that it’s swinging into an even stranger, more intense week.

This weekend, a story I worked on at the end of October that began to be about a general analysis of the delayed reaction food truck trend that developed in the city around 2015. What it ended up being was more of a meditation on the taco trucks that can be found around Des Moines’ east and south sides. The good and hard working people at The Iowa Informer let me write it how it needed to be written. These areas are often looked down upon and blighted and economically undeveloped by the western suburbs and the status, revitalization hungry downtown, but culinary innovation and celebration of tradition food in the realm of mobile, accessible eating has been going on in this community long before the current trend of food trucks showed up on the scene with their venture funding, trying to repackage the endless, monotonous, new American cuisine.

As noted in the piece, many of the new trucks have succumbed to the gravitational pull of the western suburbs, posting up outside of any of the many breweries and beer halls that are eager to find an easy way to feed customers without the overhead of a kitchen. The city council that dragged their feet on even allowing food trucks downtown created an environment that was never going to be sustainable for food trucks to operate in, just as the general infrastructure of the downtown area, with the millions of dollars sunk into a rehabilitation that lurches toward some kind of uncertain modernization in attempt to please a nebulous and precarious “creative middle class.”

There were many people in this article who I wish I could have written more on and deserve their own profile and celebration. One person in particular, Teodoro, runs a taco truck on the south side. We spoke together for a long time and his story encapsulates so much of what is important about the taco trucks to a class of people neglected and ignored by the communities who shape the power structures of the city. A man who worked hard doing punishing manual labor his entire life, the taco truck is the source of his precarious, late in life livelihood. He would like to retire soon, deserves too, and hopefully will. For Teodoro and his wife, their taco truck is a source of autonomy and self determination at the end of a life in the American labor system that has consistently undervalued them.

I sampled a lot of good food while writing this article, from some wonderfully seasoned lengua tacos to a revelatory gordita on a corn tortilla with pork chicharron and salsa verde at Gorditos Las Tios on south 14th. My favorite had to be the cheek meat taco at Salvador’s Taqueria Jarez. A supple glomming of soft meat pulled away from an animal’s most tender anatomy, garnished simply with cilantro, chopped onion, and a wedge of lime, all bound in a fresh corn tortilla. At $2 a taco, it simply can’t be beat.

Make your Thanksgiving holiday as enjoyable as possible, stop a random taco truck on the side of the road that you’ve never been to before, and be well.

Read “The Separate World of Taco Trucks in Des Moines.”

Brined pork chops with fennel

Cypriot Terracotta Pig Vessel (3rd-2nd Century BC)

Taking off in the dark, the plane window reveals many small lights, like flames in the night. This is only a small place, a small moment. There are only two objects, the night and the illuminating. Looking out the window again, approaching the runway, many small flames light the way.


Brined pork chops with fennel was the meal for the evening. Fennel, as noted here, supposedly encourages lactation in breastfeeding mothers. This meal was one of the final meals we would make in our kitchen and carry in a warm pan to the local NICU.

The recipe was simple and efficient. The chops rest in a combination of water, sugar, and fennel seeds to saturate the meat. A brine functions as a simple and elegant solution to the problem of dry meat. Anyone who has taken a bite of a home cooked pork chop knows how easily the meat within can become chewy and gray, each bite a laborious task asking more of the jaw and the saliva than it gives in return. The brine is a prayer against this, a preparing for a successful voyage.

The pork chop is a piece of loin from a pig, the area surrounding the long, sharp back section that houses the tenderloin cut. The chop, thick and sturdy, takes in the moisture that surrounds it without compromising any of its structural integrity or allowing the brine water to take anything from it in return.

The brined chops, hours later, are to be carefully lowered into a high heat cast iron pan filled with vegetable oil. After the initial sear, immediately transforming, the chops are removed from the pan. The chopped fennel bulbs simmer and become clear and soft in the now-fatty oil before the chops are returned to the pain and a final roasting in the oven cooks the meat through. The brine the chops were soaked in hours before will keep the meat from drying out against both the initial shock of heat and the lower ambient heat that finishes it.

Pork Butcher, Adriaen van Ostade (1610-1685)

Against the guidance being given to me, I dropped by hand, rather than gently lowering with the use of a fork, the first couple pork chops into the vegetable oil—a high flash point oil that, by this time, was giving off clear clouds of smoke. The sudden meeting of the pig meat and the hot oil caused an eruption, a miniature volcano of smoke and errant oil droplets. Some of this shrapnel found my arm, foolishly hovering above the pan, and landed across the underside of my forearm, elbow, and upper arm.

An immediate constellation of burn marks bloomed across. This was a more severe version of an event that happens often when I—a clumsy person who sacrifices caution and safeguards in a desire to intervene directly, to expedite, to work unencumbered—attempt to cook or bake something. In these events, I am brought into the act of food making, touched by force of heat that facilitates and catalyzes the creation. I’m consistently reminded of what’s required in this alchemic process.

The pork chops—covered in fennel needles and resting on a bed of softened fennel bulbs, imbued with the soft touch of anise—will soon be gone. The burn will linger a little longer.


The average hog, birthed and raised to be consumed by people, bears a lot of physical similarities to the animal that that rules over and devours it. Many of its internal organs and the arrangement of those organs are mirrored in people. The blood vessels the systems that weave them through the body, are similar to humans. The muscle construction, too. The loin area of back meat and muscle in a pig is anatomically nearly the same as a human.

I was told that, as my grandfather battled lung cancer in the 90s, he had to have his esophagus removed, and that part of it was reconstructed with the use of a pig’s esophagus. After this, he developed a fondness for orange juice.

I’ve also been told by older relatives about a farmer who ran a pig farm. As he poured slop into the feeding troughs for his hogs, in the darkness of the morning, he bent his body too far over the barrier and fell into the trough himself, devoured by his livestock.


Paysage Metaphysique, Jean Dubuffet (1952)

Staring at Jean Dubuffet’s Paysage Metaphysique is, like many paintings, foremost an attempt to understand a landscape. This landscape happens to be abstract, but it is also textural, physical, immediate.

The eye is drawn upwards toward the northern edge of the painting. Here, peninsular outcroppings of the dense, un-uniform red—a red the color of the burn on my arm—push outwards into the lesser gray space.

I find the points where the round burn marks on my arm intersect with my unharmed skin the most fascinating. Here is the moment of departure, the place where change appears at its most binary. The interior of the burned spots, like the interior of the red space in Paysage Metaphysique, is made up of randomly intersecting swaths of red—maroon, crimson, rust. It challenges the eye, muddles perception. In the place where the wound meets the non-wound, the clearest sense of a border between before and the after, the former and the now, is formed.


Raising pigs for slaughter—the only purpose pigs are housed in large numbers—has a long history and entrenched present in the state of Iowa. So much corn and soybean is produced in the state that it makes it a natural location in which to house the livestock that will be engorged on a diet culled directly from those staples. Iowa is still the largest producer of pork in the United States. As of September of this year, there are 75.5 million pigs in the country. 23.6 million of them are in Iowa.

A 2003 report noted that, though the number of hog farms has dropped drastically since the middle of the 20th century, the number of hogs raised in the state increases exponentially in confinement environments, as opposed to sustainable family farms.

The effects of this are material. Even in Des Moines—the relative metropolitan heart of the state—a smell that’s quite similar to dog food but uncannily different, is often reported in the downtown and surrounding areas, depending on the wind and other weather conditions.

This smell is, quite literally, the smell of death. It emanates from a rendering plant on the east side of the city where livestock that have died before becoming commercially viable as “meat” are taken. At the rendering plant, these discarded animals are essentially liquidated and made into, among other things, feed for other animals.

In northwestern Iowa, near the Minnesota border, a man recently sued the city of Sibley for attempting legal action against him for creating a website where he complained about the smell of “rancid dog food” in the town.

In eastern Iowa, where the hog confinement facilities have marked their territory, a driver passing through the country with their windows down will experience the fullness of the sweetly rancid manure smell that can travel for miles out from its point of origin.


Pigs, Franz Marc (1912)

Weeks later, the constellation of burn marks on my right arm has faded. A faint circle where the largest burn was can still be seen, flickering and faint. It’s directly to the right of another fading burn mark, received from a dutch oven in a º500 oven during a years-ago bread making.

The burns, along with other marks, constitute the textural composition of the surface of my body, subtle changes that have to be known already in order to be named. Many of them have no event attached to them, the cause forgotten or unnoticed.

This is the composition of the somewhat fixed but always changing body, the physical embodiment of the identity that relentlessly changes. Every scoring mark made to mark the way, to indicate the change that is occurring, inevitably washes away.


As the return flight began its descent into Charlotte, where the connecting flight waited, the sky was on fire. The red of the sunset was the color that lives in the bowels of fire, not at its edges. A red the color of a fresh wound, the color you would find in a human body torn open. The population of the plane craned their necks to the westerly aisle windows to see it. The cold expanse of night, blue and dark, pushed down on the ribbon of flame as it faded beyond the horizon.

Lactation cookies

Madonna of the Meadow, Giovanni Bellini (1500)

There are few commonplace events which prove the malleability and the fragility of the human animal body more than the process of growing a child. He grows within, larger and larger, pushing your body to accommodate him. He's born and then, if all goes well, the person who birthed him produces milk to nourish him. Child creation demands your body become a vessel for another and a producer of nourishment for a new human, within and without. 

On Saturday, October 6th, my godson Francis was brought into this world in a birth that went as predictably as one could ever hope, expelled physically from the womb by one of his mothers as his other mother received his new body in their hands. As soon as he stopped breathing from the umbilical cord, however, Francis has had to spend his first days in the neonatal intensive care unit due to his inability to draw enough air into his lungs, which are less than the size of a fist. 

There's a reactionary and conservative strain of thought that has always been present in this world that, despite all evidence to the contrary, believes it's just common sense that the human body should be this immutable, unchanging object in the world. But the human body is constantly changing—generating cells as the cells decay—and constantly vulnerable to change. What's more unacceptable to this reactionary thought but as true as anything is in this world: the human body should be altered. The body should be mutable by desire, by need, to keep the body alive, to help another body stay alive. 

Gossiping, Johannes Christiaan Janson (1780-1810)

One of Francis' moms asked me to bake her some lactation cookies. I was unfamiliar with the concept, but at least I didn't think, like the author of this lactation cookie recipe's asshole friend, that the this meant the cookies contained milk from human lactation. The lactation cookies are meant to contain as many galactagogues—supplements meant to encourage the production of breast milk in the body—as possible. The cookies contain herbal galactagogues, the efficacy of which is not backed by any scientific testing done so far, but supported by the testimony of many lactating mothers. 

At the moment, Francis is being fed breast milk from a feeding tube. As he grows stronger, he has to learn how to use the mouth muscles that will allow him to suckle, muscles that adult humans take for granted every single day of their lives.

Lactation is something that humans, as mammals, have done for centuries, the reaction of the healthy body to produce nutrients to nourish the newly born. Since the establishment of elite sectors of society—conservative by definition in almost every sense—there has been an attempt to outsource the duty of lactation to the lower-born in the form of the wet nurse. There has long been this instinct that to recognize the human body's function as an animal body is below a certain group of people, an attempt to deny and make unseen its utilitarian functions. 

The 18th century saw a popular attempt to bring breast feeding back to mothers in the elite class, but not for ethically sound reasons. The philosopher Carl Linnaeus published the pamphlet Nutrix Novercaadvocating that breast feeding should no longer be outsourced to wet nurses. The argument was not that breast feeding promotes bonding with the child or that its economical, but that he saw wet nurses—always belonging to a lower social caste—as unhealthy and possibly diseased. He thought that the wisdom of the upper-caste mother would flow through her milk and it made it more desirable.

Charity, Guido Reni (1629-1630)

The act of feeding a child at your breast, especially for the unprivileged, remains largely vilified, looked down upon, and in some cases criminalized, in the centuries since. Breast feeding in public has stayed contentious as the patriarchal world we are all subjected to short circuits at attempts to maintain the idea of breasts as sex objects and functional parts of the animal body simultaneously. The Right to Breastfeed Act—a law that ensures the very basic right that you will not be arrested for feeding your child on federal property—wasn't passed in the United States until 1999. 

Somehow, the act of promoting lactation and supporting the rights of mothers to lactate however and whenever they want is a political act. The actual lactation cookies themselves are largely unsweetened with the exception of coconut sugar and raw honey (a specific variety of raw honey, as I learned from Samin Nosrat's excellent new Netflix show Salt, Fat, Acid, Heatwas traditionally given to Mayan women immediately after they gave birth). The flour component in the cookies is created by blended oats and tapioca flour. Crushed fennel seeds and brewer's yeast pack even more galactagogues into the cookie. It's essentially a baked good engineered to deliver as much nutrition as possible in one mealy-tasting unit (it tastes better than a lot of gluten-free cookies, I'm told). 

I've been coming to understand—while witnessing my two close friend's pregnancy and then the birth of their son—that the care of children demands the responsibility and the involvement of many people outside of the parents themselves. Our contemporary world and culture can be isolating and so much emphasis is put on the individual. The narrative so often enforces the idea that, whatever a child is or becomes, it is the direct result of the choices that two people made alone. But it's undeniable that so many more people will have an effect on any given child's life and development. It's my responsibility, not just as a friend but as a community member, to do what I can to ensure Francis' healthy growth and to do what I can to ensure the ongoing health of his parents. He needs them, we need them, and now, as of this week, we all need Francis. 

You can donate to the ongoing health of Francis and his family here. 

Virgin and Child, Master of Saint Ursula Legend (1475-1499)


Still from “Men seated around a table dip donuts in coffee cups and eat during the Donut Dunk...” (1946)

Upon first encountering Dunkin’ Donuts in my first trips to the mid-Atlantic coast, I took its title literally. I had been vaguely aware, but never attempted to try myself, the practice of dipping a donut into coffee. There was some murky cultural imprint, a grainy black and white image, unfocused: an unadorned donut—an old-fashioned-style donut, a cake donut variation created after the advent of the yeast donut but still somehow ancestral-feeling—lowered into mud-black coffee—for a moment—and lifted back up.

The old-fashioned donut—especially those available at Dunkin’ Donuts—seems to necessitate the coffee, suffering total incompleteness without it. One bite of the donut alone reveals a compact dryness that demands more moisture than your mouth could possible offer. It’s the baked good born stale, transformed into something new by a cup of coffee. 

Not just any coffee either. Watery and bitter when black with only a shallow, whispered taste of coffee flavor in the coffee. Imminently drinkable, chug-able, and reminiscent of a thousand diners and nondescript carafes across the country. The kind of coffee they serve at Dunkin’ Donuts.

The donut and the coffee are brought together and both are changed. Immediately, the donut begins to break apart and disintegrate. This has a double effect. The donut becomes less of itself and the coffee takes on parts of the donut. It takes the width of a moment for the old-fashioned donut to become coffee-saturated to the point that its true nature is revealed, its dryness relieved, and its flavor profile heightened. 

The coffee, in all its one dimensionality, takes on a new texture and flavor. The donut detritus now floats on the coffee’s surface. This adds sugar to the coffee while larger pieces of donut maintain some of their shape and smaller shards break fully apart. This brings a texture that is, at first sip, reminiscent of drinking a mouthful of backwash. But this is a problem of perspective. More sips bring on a growing comfort with the texture and a realization that the formerly unremarkable coffee has grown more interesting and made more complex by each encounter with the donut. 

“Coffee and Donut” by Ralph Goings (2005)

Somewhere in the nearly two century-long history of the old-fashioned donut, there is some person, some originator of this ritual, the first person to dip their donut in coffee. Or perhaps there is no one person, only persons, only an action that was necessary and so it was performed. When the first Dunkin' Donuts was opened under the name Open Kettle in 1948, it was intended specifically for laborers. In my historical imagination, the donuts and coffee served to factory and construction workers were just as stale and unremarkable as they are now, or perhaps even more so. The name change from Open Kettle to Dunkin' Donuts in 1950 must have been demanded by the way the coffee and donuts needed to be consumed. They even created a donut with a handle that facilitated the act of dunking.

By the time I dunked my first old-fashioned donut in a styrofoam cup of coffee in New York, Dunkin' Donuts was well into its rebranding as a coffee-first institution. At the end of September, the large and ever-proliferating chain announced the forthcoming 2019 name change to Dunkin'. The entity formerly known as Dunkin' Donuts has initiated the collapsing of itself that it laid the groundwork for when it first started pushing the phrase "America runs on Dunkin'." This is in attempt to align itself formally with its colloquial name, but also an abandoning of its traditional function in an attempt to position itself for a bigger share of the extremely valuable coffee market. 

In 2015, the entire economic output of the coffee industry was 225.5 billion dollars. 68.5 billion dollars was generated in profit from this industry the same year. Demand for coffee is growing exponentially, especially among younger people. In 2016, Dunkin' Donuts controlled about 21% of the coffee chain market (Starbucks currently controls 39%). The donut industry, while still relatively growth-oriented and profitable compared to other food markets, projects a paltry 16 billion dollars in revenue. The tenants of capitalism—the demands of endless growth—dictate that Dunkin' Donuts’ focus more on coffee and stake out a larger share of the extremely profitable industry. 

As savvy and all-knowing as the disconnected, hive-mind network constituted of business executives, ad agencies, and trend analyzers that serves as the Dunkin' Donuts brain trust must be, there must be some realization—unacknowledged publicly, of course—that though the demand for coffee seems to be exponential, the supply is not. As the coffee industry grows to meet its current and projected demand, it becomes worse for the environment and worse for any kind of sustainable coffee supply and the environment writ large. 

Olivia Wilde at the Dunkin’ Donuts tiny house in New York (2018)

It's reasonable to assume that this is what the coffee chain had in mind when it recently opened up a "sustainable tiny house" that literally runs on Dunkin' Donuts coffee in New York's Madison Square Park. You won't see Olivia Wilde there, but she did take a picture with it and added some thoughts on the design. The house looks like the loft home of a huge Dunkin' Donuts fan who is also a robot. 

It seems reasonable to assume that this marketing stunt to demonstrate how "it’s possible to live luxurious while limiting traditional energy usage" was produced as an image correction for Dunkin’ Donuts’ role in the rapid and continuing deterioration of the world's ecosystem, something that doesn't seem likely to change in any meaningful way anytime soon. An unstable climate will likely cause the end of coffee as we know it, the delicate coffee bean being unlikely to able to adapt to a harsher environment.

The truncating of Dunkin' Donuts to Dunkin' is more than rebranding. It's a movement away from history and a reaffirmation to its goals of wringing the coffee industry for all that its worth before the opportunity slips away entirely.

Within all of this, somehow, there's still beauty. There's still the old-fashioned donut—for now—awaiting the cup of coffee that will make it whole. 

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