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Do you know about the cronuts? Let’s talk about the cronuts. I had learned of cronuts about 7 years ago, which means they arrived on the scene much earlier because I am notoriously slow on the uptake. A cronut is a combination of croissant and donut, invented (or at least, perfected) by a man named Dominique Ansel, and by all accounts, a real delicacy. For his Internet show, comedian Jerry Seinfeld drove his special

Agnes Moorehead, in her role of Endora, used to invade my dreams and nightmares. When I was ages 7 and 8, I was very impressionable, very serious, and very literal, which made Endora the most powerful and frightening character of all media, real and fictional. In the dreams she was not evil or malicious—she never turned me into a goat or a werewolf, or made me speak Italian, as she did to poor Darrin on the televisio

A For my overnight in Geneva, I felt a little funny booking myself into the Nash Airport Hotel, mostly because “Nash” is a name I associate with the United States and not Europe, and certainly not Switzerland. My sixth-grade teacher enjoyed reading aloud the works of Ogden Nash, the American poet and humorist. I have visited Nashville, Tennessee, which was named for Francis Nash, a hero of the Revolutionary War. Nash

Three women, covered head-to-toe in jet-black burkhas, are standing on line for Krispy Kreme donuts. I wonder if I am the only observer, here at a ritzy shopping mall in Abu Dhabi, who finds this sight to be noteworthy. The UAE (aka, the United Arab Emirates) has adopted some of the western worldview—corporate capitalism, overarching consumerism, a fast-paced lifestyle—but not its other, arguably less-use

The time is July, 1988, and Dwayne is admitted to the child psych ward. I am his medical student. The diagnosis (from memory today, more than 30 years later) was borderline autism accompanied by various social and behavioral issues. Physically he was short and slight, even for his age, which was around 8 years, and he wore glasses that highlighted a somewhat vacant/absent look, and he spoke with a serious lisp. His f

ALTHOUGH Mulligan’s, the miniature golf course in my neighborhood, is now closed for the season, I still get the tiniest of buzzes when I spy the simple fairways and the concrete moose en route to or from the freeway. Mind you, my desire to play miniature golf is right up there with my desire to eat excessively-sweetened breakfast cereal while watching cheaply-produced Saturday morning television. Nevertheless, the p

I received an email today from someone I don’t know named Kristin Rowe-Finkbeiner. Here is the opening text. It’s Thanksgiving Eve! I’m making pies — apple, pumpkin, AND another pumpkin, and wondering if I should make a fourth. There’s a lot to celebrate, and a lot of work ahead, but this Thanksgiving, I’m feeling profoundly grateful — for YOU, and this whole community. Thank you. Well, for today, that kind of sums t

reprinted with minor edits from Mandala, Vol. 11; St. Louis Park High School; May, 1979 I. “Thumbs, Thumbs, Thumbs?” That’s all I hear. The monotonous, repetitive wailing cry of an armada of rancid soldiers. Three men in Salvation Army uniforms hold me at gunpoint, commanding: “GIVE US THE SECRET TO THE AARDVARK DANCE.” “Will the boxstep do?” I quip. They, with quiet, ruthless efficiency promptly blow my head off. II

What have I been up to? Well, I was pawing through boxes of old stuff and came across a Mandala from my senior year of high school. Mandala was (and possibly remains) the school’s literary magazine, written and edited by the student body. The contributors were the usual suspects: the future math professor, the future best-selling journalist and author, the future Improbable Research Limerick Laureate, the future frie