The simplest donut of all is the unassuming buttermilk bar. It’s just a drop of dough with a slit in the middle. Nothing fancy. Not even round. It’s existence is a thing we all take for granted. Twenty or so years ago, my brother and I would scarf down a two dollar box of donuts. One of the small joys in our young, naive lives. Eating raised double glazed, jelly filled, Bavarian creams, orange frosted cakes, maple bars while watching reruns of Monty Python and Second City. Our heroes were Bob and Doug Mackenzie of the Great White North, because they could put away the beer and more importantly they could put away the donuts. Then eventually he met a girl. And I met a girl. The donut days were soon past. We lived out lives far apart in different states, rising our own families. We would see each other once every few years at the most. Often the fate of growing up. On a recent visit, I learned that there are some things he misses but who would have thought that one of those things would be donuts. Especially the lowly buttermilk bar. The one that usually ends up being picked last, much like myself on the grade school playground. The one that is easiest to forgot. The one that happens to be my favorite. Now whenever I take my son for donuts, I have to get the buttermilk bar. Because it reminds me of my brother and the youth we shared over two dollar boxes of donuts. Who would have thought that so much could be found in the simplicity of a donut.