Who took the donut out of the donut hole?

Today I woke up at 7:00 a.m. to take Dinghy, our new puppy, out for “Pees and Poops!” One must exude a certain amount of enthusiasm (I like to channel Dan Aykroyd’s impression of Julia Child - “Save the livah!”) when urging puppies to do their morning “Pees and Poops!” As I attempted to persuade Dinghy to finish her business she zoomed around the yard in her “Let’s play chicken!” mode—a game where she darts about in circles like a crazed foul while I give chase. 

Finally, pees and poops accomplished amidst no small amount of chicken chasing, we proceeded to perform our morning yard check. Suddenly  I noticed a commotion across the street in front of the Josiah Quincy House (a historic Quincy home built by one Josiah Quincy, a mayor of Boston and China trader). Cops and men in some kind of catering uniform all peered through the Jo Qui house fence. The intermittent spit of police radios punctuated morning cricket calls. There was a white truck parked on the street with it's back open and I could just make out racks of what looked like baked goods. I thought, “Must be having a catered affair at Jo Qui today.” But why all the cops?

Just then my neighbor Pete appeared.

“What’s all the commotion?” I asked. Pete has lived in the neighborhood forever. He’s a Quincy guy of first rank. Any Quincy-worthy news, Pete  knows it before anyone else.

“Dunkin Donut truck got jacked.” Pete informed me.

“Jacked?”

“Yah." Throwing me a less than patient look. "As in stolen. Get with the program Tammi. You gotta know the lingo of a crime scene.”

“OOOPS. Sorry.” I didn’t actually feel too bad not knowing “The lingo of a crime scene.” Crime scenes aren’t really my thing. I’m more a food truck scene gal. Crime scenes or fresh made burritos from the Baja Burrito truck? I’ll take the burrito anytime.

I peered across the street. “So are those donuts in the truck?”

Yep. Ten stores worth.”

Wow. What will they do with all those donuts?"

Pete sneered. “Probably take the truck back to the Police Station and keep it as evidence.”

Ten stores worth of deelish Dunkin Donuts. Some poor little old lady just coming from church to get her baker’s dozen (Do they still do that?) is going to have to forgo her Chocolate Chunky Cruller and Boston Cremes. 

Can anyone say crisis in Quincy?

This is a total donut debacle of desperate dimensions. 

I can see the headline now. "Collective Cry Hits Quincy. No Donuts for YOU!"
For those of you who aren't aware, Dunkin Donuts was founded in Quincy so we are very serious about our donuts.

I imagine Quincy citizens raging about the Sunday donut deficit. 

Ritual Sunday sugar highs? NOT! 

Children plead with their mommies, "Mommy, why can't I have my Nutty Butter Peanutty donut hole?" 

Mom sighs, "A really mean man took your donut hole and now the police have it and they won't give it back." 

Meanwhile, Quincy cops are “examining” the “evidence” and “logging” it for the prosecution. Something tells me crumbs will be flying when the DA finds his evidence was “lost.”

As I peer at the truck trying to figure out a way to snag some donuts—someone might as well get a good sugar high and why not me? I asked Pete. "What do you think all the donut eaters will do today without their donuts?"

Pete looked thoughtful. "Let them eat cake?"

Cake. Hmmmm. Sounds good to me.