Wind Advisery! Powder Sugar Was Flying Today But Nothing Stops Donut
The text alert had blared at 5:00 AM: WIND ADVISORY IN EFFECT. GUSTS UP TO 60 MPH. SECURE OUTDOOR ITEMS.
Sal Palumbo looked at his phone, then at his 20-foot, brightly-painted food truck, “The Donut Hole.” He considered it. The truck was, technically, an “outdoor item.” He shrugged, grabbed his keys, and cranked the ignition. A little air wasn’t going to stop him.
By 7:00 AM, he was parked in his usual spot by the shipyard. The wind was already a physical presence, a high, screaming whine that made the truck rock gently on its suspension, like a boat in a storm.
Sal was frying his first batch of mini-donuts when the first real gust hit. It didn’t knock; it was a full-body shoulder check. The truck lurched. A bottle of rainbow sprinkles leaped off the shelf and exploded across the floor, turning his workstation into a Jackson Pollock painting.
“Okay,” Sal muttered to the empty truck. “So it’s gonna be like that.”
He opened the service window. A mistake. The wind ripped the latch from his hand and slammed the aluminum window open, pinning it against the outside of the truck. A vortex immediately formed inside the cabin. Napkins, order tickets, and a single, wayward dollar bill swirled in a chaotic ballet.
Then, his first customer appeared. It was “Scraps,” one of the dockworkers, a man who looked like he’d been carved from driftwood. He was walking at a 45-degree angle against the wind.
“Sal! Gimme a dozen!” Scraps yelled, his words nearly stolen by the gale. “Mixed!”
Sal nodded, his face grim. He fried the donuts. He glazed half. Then, he turned to the bin of powdered sugar.
This was the moment. The wind was a predator, waiting.
Sal scooped the hot donuts into a paper bag, added a generous scoop of powdered sugar, and folded the top. He held it out the window.
The wind saw its opening. It caught the bag like a sail. The bag inflated and then detonated.
A perfect, white mushroom cloud of powdered sugar erupted from the window. It hit Scraps square in the chest, coating his dark blue work coat and beard in a thick, ghostly frost.
Scraps didn’t even blink. He just plucked a sugar-caked donut from the air, bit into it, and gave Sal a thumbs-up. “Extra sugar today, I see! Nice!” He handed over a wet ten-dollar bill and battled his way back to the docks.
The day went on. Sal abandoned all pretense of tidiness. His “Now Serving” sign was last seen cartwheeling toward the harbor. He had to use a bungee cord to keep the cash register drawer from flying open.
The air around the truck became a permanent blizzard. Every time he opened the sugar bin, the wind would steal a cloud, dusting the pavement, the nearby stop sign, and a very confused-looking seagull.
By noon, Sal himself looked like one of his own creations. His hair was stiff with sugar, his black apron was white, and he had a permanent squint. The wind advisory had been upgraded to a “High Wind Warning.”
A line of five people was now huddled by the truck, holding onto each other for balance. They were laughing. They weren’t just here for donuts; they were here for the experience.
“This is crazy!” one woman shrieked as a gust nearly took her hat. “But I need my maple bacon!”
Sal just grinned, a flash of white in his sugar-caked face. The wind could take his sign, it could steal his napkins, and it could blast his customers with a pound of sugar. But the fryers were hot, the dough was rising, and nothing—absolutely nothing—stops the donut.
