I must be nostalgic if I'm reading FB and Yelp reviews of my aunt and uncle's donut shop. Mom and Dad had a donut shop too, when I was small. Cambodian-owned donut shops are a peculiar Californian phenomenon, proliferating through kinship networks, as cousins taught cousins how to run donut shops. A generation grew up with memories of doing homework in squeaky plastic chairs, cultivating cavities on crullers, fritters, and soda while chatting with old folks about pinochle and world war II. Because we never traveled, I learned how to read, really read, here, with a vagabond's wanderlust, anything I could get my hands on: alternative weeklies, LGBT newspapers, strange magazines full of freaky stories given by a retired art professor, and Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose--my first 'adult' novel--lent from Dave, who had a weakness for powdered donut holes. Man, I miss these places, that weird, sweet-smelling second home decorated with pictures of Angkor Wat and red-paper blessings for the year.





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