When my family moved to Lakeway, Texas, our relatives said we might as well have moved to a medieval village. There was no nearby Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme. For that matter, there wasn't a movie theater or a McDonald's either. Although you would barely recognize it today, Lakeway before 2010 was a sleepy town intended for Longhorns fans to weekend at before returning to their urban estates. However, what the town's restaurants lacked in quantity they made up for in homeliness. Even if we lacked a processed confectionery chain, we still had a quirky donut shop my parents could take me to if they sensed I ever needed a celebratory treat or 20 minutes of quiet chewing. Since this was one of the only businesses in the area, it felt like our lives revolved around buttery fritters and the baker who made them. My school field trip? Donut shop. Snacks for church? Donut shop. The monkey poster lining the entrance and the silky sweet smell wafting from the back danced around my dreams. To avoid my requests that we go there every morning, Wednesdays during kindergarten became family donut day. We would wake up early, pack into the car, get our fill of donuts, and miraculously still manage to get to school by 7:30 a.m. Maybe something about this donut shop augmented time, because for me, Wednesday mornings seemed to last joyous hours. If our relatives viewed Lakeway as a medieval village, then this donut shop was my portal to a fantasy land. However, to enter this sacred space, I would first have to cross the threshold of adventure and reach the doorknobs; this was often achieved with assistance from my parental entourage. As I waddled through the doors, I beheld a model of small-town America in the 2000s. Every free space on the wall was taken by either a picture of the high-school soccer team from three years ago, a humorous newspaper comic, or a thank-you letter from a charity. The voice of James Taylor crooned from an undefinable source, and a claw machine beckoned me to visit in a few years once my dexterity was more advanced. These were all, however, mere distractions from what I really came to find. In the center of the room, I peered through a clear case of donuts with a multitude of different magically concocted colors and attempted to soak in the creatures of this new realm. Deciding between the different donuts, toppings, and sprinkles felt like choosing a lifelong pet. The cashier would always snicker at the arrested vacillation of a child with bedhead, but played along anyways, advising me as Merlin would to King Arthur. Eventually, I'd proudly point to a chocolate sprinkle or cinnamon twist and declare it my companion for the morning. Then I'd silently laugh at my grown-ups for choosing a spinach kolache (a type of savory turnover) and black coffee. We all knew who would have the better Instagram shot in 10 years. With a ding of the register, we were off to start the real festivities. The store itself had three tables in total, which were situated down a skinny side hallway only I could walk through with ease. For three people to sit around a table, we would have to keep elbows in and treats up. The main challenge I often encountered in my quest was the sheer height of this donut in comparison to how tall my six-year-old mouth could stretch. To go straight in would be to allow the frosting to glide over my upper lip. At the same time, asking for the donut to be cut into chips with a plastic fork would be both embarrassing to myself and to my new companion's pride. I always picked the former option. Anticipating my decision, my mom always asked for a water bottle and napkins with our order. No sojourner would leave a feast without entertainment, and unfortunately the mechanical claw still proved too difficult for my chubby hands to master. All the diversion I needed came from clinking coins and folding bills. In a timid voice, I would ask the cashier if I could fulfill my usual duty as a temporary change-counter. My parents had met the owners a while back, and a onetime gig playing “helper” soon evolved into my regular commitment. Luckily, the community was too intimate and the business too local to raise any alarms about a fetus counting change on Wednesday mornings. My life and the life of my town slowly got more hectic. We got a movie theater, a mall, and an H-E-B. My family's weekly outings to our beloved donut shop became monthly ideas, which eventually morphed into rare and spontaneous morning dates that would continue with my parents when I visited home from college. Even as the doorknobs, donuts, and claw machine became less mystical, I still always left the shop feeling refreshed. Frankly, I don't think it was the donuts (even though they are delicious). Too often, our family time is relegated to evening hours, and the TV families who can sit at a round table and eat breakfast together seem creepy and unrealistic. However, I believe there is an innate duality contained within breakfast time. On the one hand, the events of yesterday have muted but not yet dissipated. For example, novelist Henry Green described one of life's greatest pleasures as “Lying in bed on a summer morning… eating buttered toast” with the scent of last night's lover still fresh on the fingers. Even with the newfound perspective on yesterday, mornings are also times to look forward to the future. In The Odyssey, for example, Odysseus reunites with his son and plans an attack on the suitors invading his household all in a morning meal. To sit with the people, I love in the limbo between yesterday and today is to give myself a chance to talk about life through a new lens, a hopeful lens. It gives me a kind of peace that, even if my day falls apart, I will have a home to return to in the evening. Last year when back in town, I decided to pay it forward and take my younger cousins to the same donut shop before dropping them off at preschool. I helped them cross the threshold of tall doorknobs, waited patiently while they wavered between lemon and strawberry frosting, and remembered to ask for extra napkins. It had been over 10 years since I was in their young shoes, rubbing my eyes and looking into the glass for the best way to start the day. Although the joy of eating together almost overshadowed the realization, I was surprised to crave what I finally realized was delicious spinach and feta kolache. Desperate to avoid becoming a boring grown-up, I went to the claw machine and won some donut holes to nibble on as well. Hopefully, the kids would be too busy slipping frosting onto their noses to ask when they could try the claw machine. That time would come soon enough.