Jared Reck - Donuts and Other Proclamations of Love

1. Original (Rullekebab)

Shaved seasoned beef, fresh flatbread, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, kebab sauce

2. Blue Kebab (Rullekebab med blmgelost)

Original with blue cheese

3. Shroom Kebab (Rullekebab med champinjoner)

Original with mushrooms

4. Hej Hej! Special Rullekebab

Original with pineapple, blue cheese, jalapeos

1. pple Munk

Fresh donut, cinnamon sugar, filled w/ apple and sweet cream

2. Br Munk

Fresh donut, sugar, seasonal berry jam, sweet cream

3. Munkhl

Baby donuts (holes), cinnamon sugar

4. Special Munk

Seasonal specialties

I still smelled like a deep fryer when I rolled out of bed at 6:00 a.m. that first Saturday in September.

Wed been up late the night before, the last Friday Food Trucks of the season at Springettsbury Park, and wed been slammedthe line snaking from our window to the other side of the gravel parking lot for a good hour, the deep fryer spitting out droplets of oil like angry hornets every time I plopped in another batch of munkar. Swedish for donuts.

Id already been in school nearly two weeks by that point, it already sucked, and now, with Saturdays festival in downtown York the last big one wed do for the year, I was looking at the endless slog of just school through the fall, winter, and spring.

Senior year. A hundred and seventy-two more days.

Ready, Gubben? Farfar called from the kitchen, where hed just finished packing up the last cooler from the emergency cook-fest the night before. Barely five hours before, really.

Ready.

Two travel mugs of thick, dark coffee waited for me on the island countermine turned light by a healthy pour of heavy cream and sugar, Farfars the color of roofing tar.

We thought wed prepped enough earlier in the week to handle back-to-back events, but we didnt plan on the Pee-Wee football scrimmage, overlapping with the free concert for that Eagles cover band, wiping out our entire stock of munkar dough. We were lucky we didnt blow a fuse that night, trying to reload for the festival in the morning.

Did you get all those extra kebab sauces I packed last night? I asked, taking a first, cautious sip from my coffee.

Already took the cooler down to the truck.

You shouldnt be lugging coolers down the stairs, Farfar. Seriously. I told you Id get them.

Eh. He waved me off. You spent so much time dolling yourself up in the bathroom, I had no choice.

I held my arms out, stared down at my ratty clothes. Even after multiple washes, all my Hej Hej! shirts smelled a little like a deep fryer.

Not unpleasantly so, but still.

Farfar hefted another cooler into my arms, which nearly pulled me to the floor.

There you go, Gubben. You can carry this one down. Spare an old man his aching back.

Gubben (rhymes with Reuben) is actually Swedish for old man, but kind of like youd call a little kid big guy. Its what Farfars called me since I moved to Gettysburg with himto this country with himwhen I was four.

Koopa laced between Farfars legs, meowing and purring aggressively for attention, like she knew wed be out for the entire day. Whenever Koopa saw the coolers, her separation anxiety kicked in.

On cue, Farfar scooped her up in his arms.

Min lilla bebis stnos, ja. Lilla kattkatt.

His gray ponytail swung over her gray face while he prattled on in his ridiculous Swedish baby talk, Koopa yowling and batting at the end of his hair.

Thats enough, I said, straining with the handles of the cooler, loaded down with dough and backup fruit filling. Its getting uncomfortable.

Aww, Gubben, there is enough love to go around. The two of them snuggled up close to my face, Farfar babbling Swedish baby talk to both of us now, Koopa purring like an outboard motor, burrowing her gray face into mine.

Thats nice. Thank you, I said, blowing cat hair from my lip.

Farfar gave Koopa one last nuzzle with his short-trimmed beard before setting her on the floor, Koopa twisting and yowling incessantly between Farfars feet, begging us (him) to stay.

Okay. Come on, Gubbento the truck!

We drove, like always, with the windows down, Farfars NPR station cranked, my arm resting out the window, barely conscious for the forty-five-minute ride into downtown York.

This was our third year at the What the Food Trucks Festival, my favorite of our circuit. Short drive, great turnout, cool vendors, live music, York College girls still clinging to summer. Everything. And with our weekly trips to Springettsbury just a few minutes away, we got more customers who knew us, which I loved. It made me think about opening a caf someday, maybe, to go with the trucksomewhere regulars stop in, know where theyre going to sit, what theyre going to order. I wondered if Farfar had thator, I guess, if Amir had thatback in land. If that was how they met, where they fell in love.