Saturday, June 25, 2011


I cannot recall what triggered this memory, which goes back to early years, probably age 7, 8 or so. The dark green paneled bakery truck, driven by Frank Pulmonari, would drive up to the back door of the house, and I would run outside to greet it with my mom. He would open the back doors, exposing the floured finished wooden platform, covered with freshly baked loves of aromatic Italian bread. There was no “American bread “(sliced white bread), If you wanted that, you had to go to the grocery store. I recall that wonderful bread wistfully; wishing I could relive that experience, but back then it was not the bread that interested me. eyes were on the large drawers that shared the space beneath the platform and the floor of the truck, more specifically, the drawer on the left side. It was this drawer that, when pulled open, revealed those absolutely wonderful doughnuts. Thick, soft doughnuts covered with powdery sugar and filled with the most delicious jelly and cream that was ever made by anyone, anywhere. I would look at my mother with pleading eyes, and if I was lucky, she would nod to the driver and we would fill a bag with a selection of the those powdery treasures.

I don’t remember when the truck stopped coming by. Several years later Frank Pulmonari was shot and killed by a deranged family member, along with several other members of the family. That was BIG news for our little town.

I like Dunkin Doughnuts, in fact there are very few doughnuts that I don’t like. But if I had a choice....oh how I would love to see those doors open and that big drawer pulled out before me.

1 comment:

Sara Jo Renzulli said...

Your story reminded me that we had a Sunday morning Duncan Donuts ritual on Van Buren St. I don't remember exactly when that stopped - maybe after you moved out. Glad it was not because you were shot.