I SEEK the high-class eating joint, when my old stomach gives a wrench,
and there the waiters proudly point to bills of fare got up in French. I
order this, and order that, in eagerness my face to feed, and oftentimes
I break a slat pronouncing words I cannot read. And as I eat the costly
greens, prepared by an imported cook, to other times and other scenes
with reminiscent eyes I look. My mother never was in France, no foreign
jargon did she speak, but how I used to sing and dance when she made
doughnuts once a week! Oh, they were crisp and brown and sweet, and they
were luscious and sublime, and I could stand around and eat a half a
bushel at a time. The doughnuts that our mothers made! They were the
goods, they were the stuff; we used to eat them with a spade and simply
couldn’t get enough. And when I face imported grub, all loaded down with
Choctaw names, I sigh and wish I had a tub of doughnuts, made by
old-time dames. I do not care for fancy frills, but when the doughnut
dish appears, I kick my hind feet o’er the thills, and whoop for joy,
and wag my ears.
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