When my husband, Andrew, and I first bound together our souls and wallets the year after we graduated from college and moved to a new state, we, like many who marry young, were completely broke. We moved to a tiny basement apartment in Charlottesville, Virginia, with popcorn ceilings and a musty odor. Like any other starry-eyed newlyweds, we wholeheartedly loved it. On Saturday mornings in Charlottesville, we loved to visit the farmers market. We’d brew our own coffee—as at that age, paying $4 for a cup of drip coffee still felt extravagant and outrageous—and walk past the colorful stalls selling flowers, art, and baked goods. One morning, just as the weather was beginning to turn and the air held the crisp tint of fall, we walked past a bakery stand selling donuts. I am usually not a donut person, but these smelled like someone had wrapped up heaven and put …