Pick o' the Day: The Case of the Missing Chocolate Nutty

 A Reluctant English Major Adventure!

           I was standing in my den puffing on my pipe while perusing my collection of maps of China with the intent of formulating a plan for my next big-game hunt, and I had begun by circling areas that I thought would most likely be overpopulated by those pesky and ferocious Panda Bears, when I was startled by an intense and incessant buzzing in my left side front pants pocket.  There was no need for my eyes to leave their fervent study of the map, for my left hand instinctively reached into the pocket, reemerged clasping my state-of-the-art Verizon LG flip-phone (with both an attractive metallic-silver finish and camera/ texting capabilities), dexterously opened it, and held it up against my ear.  I then proceeded to speak.  “This is Blaine.  How can I be of service to you?” This, of course, is my standard telephone greeting when I am in the dark about who may be calling me.

            “Yellow!”  The voice on the other end of the wireless line sounded vaguely familiar, but I could not immediately place it.  It was coming from a lower range, somewhere between bass and baritone, with a timbre that sounded as if the vocal chords, whose mildly violent vibrations had generated the sound, had been marinated for decades in rich, black, Columbian coffee.  I thought it a bit curious that the male speaker who had responded to my greeting had chosen to do so by boldly stating the name of a primary color normally used for the subtractive combining of colors, as in mixing or dyes.  What in the world could he possibly mean by uttering such a word?  My mind raced through all of its possible denotations and connotations, and most of them, unfortunately, were of a derogatory nature.  Yet I resisted the impulse to respond in like manner to the initial rudeness of the up-to-this-point-unknown caller.

            “I beg your pardon?” I rejoined, my above-normal sense of curiosity having been piqued.

            “Uh, I said… yellow?  I was wondering if I could speak with my son.”

            Aha!  And so the mysterious caller had unknowingly revealed himself at last!  It was my father!  My powers of deduction were as sharp as ever, enabling me to identify the man behind the voice in little more than a few short seconds!  I was not unfamiliar with this character, for I had known him, and have had dealings with him, for more than a half century.  He was a genial sort of chap, though a bit rugged and rough around the edges, who had, over the years, apparently developed some sort of interest in the events that were happening in my life, and who would, on occasion, ring me up on my telephone to find out such information.  I generally found him to be harmless enough, and so I usually did not begrudge him his requests.  He was also one of the most faithful readers of my blog, and who was very often kind enough to post a humorous comment or a valid question, thereby letting me know that what I had written had provoked thought in at least one other human being on the planet!

            I also remembered that my father did not like for me to engage in verbal discourse with him in the register in which I had become accustomed ever since I had graduated from the elite and prestigious University of Arizona with a major in English, where I had been forcibly exposed, often against my will, to the writings of Shakespeare and others of his ilk, and which had the unanticipated effect of elevating my speech from that of your average, Midwestern, small-town boy into that of a somewhat precocious American lad who had been awarded a degree for becoming semi-familiar with a few works of British literature and who had begun speaking thereafter in what, by all accounts, was a bad, and obviously fake, English accent.  And yet, try as I might, I found it extremely difficult, if not semi-impossible, to modify my speech in a manner that he would find less irksome.

            “It is I, your son!  To what do I owe the pleasure of receiving this telephone call?”

            “What?  Okay, whatever,” he said, with a slight tinge of aggravation.  “Listen, We’ve’ve got a problem.  In fact, it’s more than a problem.  It’s a mystery!”

            At the sound of the “M” word, the one that preceded the invisible exclamation point that marked the end of his utterance, my ears pricked up in the manner of a cat that had just detected the ever-so-faint tip-tip-tippy-toeing of a mouse stealthily seeking the sumptuous sustenance provided by cookie crumbs and snack wrappers that tend to collect beneath my living room sofa.  As everyone knows, I love a good mystery, as I fancy myself a bit of an amateur sleuth, and I will jump at the chance to employ my vast store of trivial knowledge, used in concert with my talent of discerning small details that usually go unnoticed by the common man, for the purpose of solving a good one.

            “A mystery, you say.  Pray continue, my good man.”

            “Yeah, it’s a mystery all right.  But I think it’s a bit stupid to talk about it over the phone.  Just come on up to the kitchen!”  He then hung up.

            The prospect of having a good mystery to solve made the interruption of my work in the den a small matter indeed, so I put away my maps and made my way up the basement steps to the kitchen.  There stood my father, in close proximity to the counter area next to the kitchen sink, and he appeared to be looking down at an open box of donuts.  Beside him, standing on a chair, was my two-year-old granddaughter, known to one and all as “Baby”, and when she saw me she yelled out, “Hi, Gan-pah!  Don-duts!  Wansome?”

            “I most assuredly do!” I exclaimed as I expeditiously walked over to make my selection.

            “Not so fast,” cautioned my father.  “I want you to look at something first.”

            Together the three of us looked at the open box that sat upon the countertop.  I noticed the word “Super” was imprinted on the side of it, leading me to suspect that these tasty treats had been manufactured at the neighborhood Super Donut Shop.  Continuing my inspection, I observed that there was a variety of luscious cake donuts that filled the box in a most delicious and tantalizing way.  There was a glazed, a chocolate iced, a strawberry with sprinkles, a coconut, a glazed cruller, a chocolate cruller, a maple, a sugar, a cinnamon, a powdered, and even a plain.  Altogether, it was a veritable cornucopia of delectable delights that simply oozed with an aura of nothing less than pure happiness!  I saw no mystery there!

            “Mmmmm.  Nummyliscious!” exclaimed Baby.  Ungrammatical as her comment was, it was, nonetheless, exactly correct.

            “If I am not mistaken, I was under the impression that there was some sort of problem,” I remarked.  “I have never before considered the consumption of an aromatic assortment of angelic pastries a cause of any great concern.”

            “Perhaps you might try counting them,” suggested my father.  I found his suggestion to be interesting enough to warrant the expenditure of the necessary mental energy to follow through with the mathematical calculations required to ensure an accurate count of the delightful delicacies that lay before me. 

            “Hmmm,” I hummed as I finished my count.  “There seems to be only eleven donuts here, although based on the expectations of most donut-shop patrons, as well as the number that comes to my mind through my own experience of purchasing such ambrosial and appetizing pleasures, one would reasonably expect there to be a full dozen.”

            “Exactly!” responded my father.

            “Zakly!” echoed my granddaughter, nodding her head in agreement.

            “Ahhh!  A mystery, indeed!” I stated.  I sensed the wheels and gears within my mind begin turning at a prodigious rate as they processed the information, and within a matter of a few seconds, they produced a set of assumptions which I could therefore relate to my expectant family members.  “I do not see it as necessary for you to relate to me the events that have led up to the discovery of the incomplete assortment we see before us, for I will do that for you, if I may be so bold.”

            “Go ahead,” murmured my father.

            “Well then, it goes like this.  Earlier this very morning you awoke with a strong desire for something sweet to go with your usual ten cups of coffee, and, after being unable to find an adequate and satisfactory candidate within the kitchen cupboards that would fit the bill, you decided to make a short trip by motorcar to the nearest Super Donut Shop for the express purpose of purchasing a dozen mixed-variety donuts to bring back home for the enjoyment of us all.  On your way out, you were met by my granddaughter, your great-granddaughter, who expressed the desire to go with you.  We all know that Baby does not accept the word ‘NO’ as a viable option, thus making it necessary that both of you conduct a frustrating search of the entire house in order to find a matched pair of shoes for her, after which you then commenced your journey together to the donut shop.”

            “Go on,” nodded my father.

            “When the two of you arrived at the Super Donut Shop, you would have entered the store hand-in-hand, and you would have been immediately greeted by a rather over-friendly, middle-aged, female Asian-immigrant clerk, a certain Ms. Lin, if I remember correctly from her name tag, who has apparently received much more training in the art of up-selling than she has in the learning of the English language.  As a result, you would have found yourself to be pressured into making your selections in a rapid, rather than leisurely, manner while constantly being bombarded with questions such as: ‘Would you like to try one of our Kolaches?’ and ‘Do you know that a full dozen is a much better deal?’ and ‘Would you like some coffee?’ and ‘Would you like it to be heated-up?’ and what seemed like hundreds of other questions.  But if you asked her a question in an attempt to clarify an offer, or to ask her how her day has been, or if you attempted to say anything but ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, she would have looked at you for a brief second with a puzzled expression before continuing with the up-sell, which would continue even after you had handed-over your debit card and were awaiting the bank’s approval.  As a result, you would be thinking to yourself, ‘Please just give me my donuts!’ and ‘I just want to get out of here!’ and ‘Arrrrrrrrrrrgh!’, which is the reason why I am very glad that it is you who went there this morning rather than I.”

            “That is correct,” agreed my father.

            “Nevertheless, when you had finally obtained your purchase, you were satisfied that you had received everything you had asked for because you had witnessed her putting each and every donut you had pointed-out into the box.  And when you left the store, and after you had buckled Baby into her car seat in the back, your great granddaughter would have insisted on holding the box of donuts on her lap.  You would then have driven home, happy in the knowledge that you would soon be dunking a delectable donut into your first cup of morning joe.  But when you arrived here, you were dismayed to discover that one was missing.  Not only that, but the missing donut was the one which many of us would deem as the very best donut in the box – the exceedingly rare and hard-to-find ring-shaped cake of sweetened dough called the ‘Chocolate Nutty’.”

            “Yes, but how did you…?” my father began to ask.

            “Know that it is the Chocolate Nutty that is missing?” I rather rudely interrupted.  “Ha!  That is the very first donut we all look for when the box is opened, no?  Who can possibly resist a cake donut topped with delicious chocolate frosting and sprinkled with chopped nuts?  Who would have the will power to pass over such a tantalizing tidbit and select a lesser form of spherical goodness that was deep-fried in hot fat?  And behold!  There is no Chocolate Nutty in the box!”

            The three of us peered into the cardboard container together.  There was an empty space in the lower, right-hand corner that should have held the missing donut.  Instead, there were only two tiny and lonely-looking bits of nut laying on the bottom.  Baby quickly reached her tiny hand into the space and grabbed one of the minute pieces.  She then offered it to me. 

            “Here, Gan-pah!”  I declined her offer and told her she could have it.  She smiled.

            I then continued, “And so we have quite the conundrum!  A Chocolate Nutty donut cannot simply vanish into thin air as one drives home from a Super Donut Shop!”

            “Which is why I told you we have a mystery on our hands,” said my father, with a wink and a nod.

            I was genuinely perplexed.  “I am going to need to check the motorcar for clues,” I announced.  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  After securing my magnifying glass and a flashlight from the den, I made my way out to the driveway and began a thorough forensic search of the vehicle, a la “CSI”.  Among the myriad curious and strange items I discovered on the carpet, under the seats, and in various dusty nooks and crannies were a quarter, my long-lost swimming earplug, my latest Susan Boyle CD, some mummified Cheeto bits, a ‘sippy’ cup with curdled milk in it, a McDonald’s bag full of crinkled-up McDouble wrappers, one water shoe, and no less than two copies of Maurice Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are”.  But most interestingly of all, I detected seven tiny pieces of nut on Baby’s car seat, as well as a smear of chocolate frosting on her right-hand side arm-rest.  I was stunned by the implications!  Could our Baby be somehow involved in the mysterious disappearance of the donut?  Did she know something that she has not yet revealed to us during the course of the investigation?  What could this mean?

            I quickly returned to the kitchen and found my father and his great granddaughter sitting at the table, apparently waiting for me to join them in the partaking of the fabulous feast of coffee, orange juice, and donuts which lay before them.  I walked over to Baby and examined her face through the magnifying glass.  Besides two humongous, bright blue, and blinking eyes, I saw the tell-tale marks of chocolate icing smudged around her smiling lips.

            “Baby, do you know who ate the Chocolate Nutty donut?” I asked.

            “I did it!” she exclaimed as she stood up on the chair and reached both arms up and out in a victorious ‘V’ sign!  Then, putting her left arm down, she yelled out, “High five!”

              And with that, the mystery was solved!  And we celebrated with hugs and kisses and “high fives” all around!  Just then her father strolled into the kitchen, saw the donut box on the table, and walked over to select one.
            "What?"  he exclaimed.  "No Chocolate Nutties?"