Growing up, my family ate breakfast at a local donut shop every Tuesday and Saturday. Don’t ask me why those two days in particular; those were simply our days.

We came to know the woman who ran the place, Joan. She became like family: we exchange Christmas cards, she made us giant birthday donuts of our choice each year (something she did for no one else ever, not even her own kids and grand kids), she came to my youngest brother’s wedding.

I stopped by the donut store on Tuesday. It was the same as it ever was. The store’s official name is Doyle’s Daylight Donuts, but it’s become the platonic ideal of what a donut store should be, and so we’ve always simply called it The Donut Store.

Folks can argue about who they think makes the best donuts. I’ve heard many people do so. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care how delicious, how moist the cake donut or how light the yeast donut, there is only one possible answer: it’s the donut store where Joan still wakes up before dawn and mixes the dough; where they’ll open up for you if there are donuts ready, even if it’s not officially time to do so; it’s where I got giant donuts my whole family could eat off for breakfast on my birthday. It’s the best damn donut shop in the world, and I will fight you if you say otherwise.