Cinnamon Donut

The first bite of a cinnamon donut, every cinnamon donut, reminds me of summer trips to Fire Island when I was a kid. The last three towns on the island were family towns, and very different from what Fire Island is known for.

There are no cars allowed on the island and we used to take the ferry from Bayshore, Long Island. There was a shack at the ferry deck that in my memory only sold two things: cinnamon donuts and Manhattan clam chowder. That's less popular red kind. I don't know if I ever got both together, but I know I got both. And they were the best examples of each.

We rented a house on Fire Island for three Augusts in a row in the mid-1970s. These carefree summer days still occupy an idyllic place in my mind. The rough feel on our bare feet of the raised boardwalk that served as the sidewalk. The smell of hot pine straw, which is another strong sense memory of this time. And the grown-up feeling we had when we went to the store and bought frozen Milky Ways and Wacky Packages on our account.