I don't really trash a joint in this column. This really ticks off my critics, who believe criticism should be based on personal taste and limited to some sort of foie gras and unicorn dream that a perfect meal waits around every corner.
I've been in a mall food court exactly six times in the past decade, each time to satisfy an acute Cinnabon fixation.
Every day, twice a day I check my garden to see if I have any "maters" ripe and ready for picking. In less sophisticated parts of the country, this veggie-fruit is called a tomato, but I live in Georgia, so I call them maters.
It doesn't matter if you spell it donut or doughnut - these little ring-shaped dough cakes are deep-fried and smothered in sweetness. Donuts are a poor man's dessert.
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