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I'm finally getting the message. It's been two years in the making. At first, I thought it was just bad luck or poor timing. Now, I'm convinced God is speaking to me through the produce. Or, more accurately, testing my soul with fruit; most delish.

I first dabbled in strawberries when I was a child in small town Oklahoma. I should have known the dangerous path I was on when I resorted to sating my craving with not-quite-ripe, out of season, scrawny morsels from the plants lining our home.

Over the years my want for the sweet, juicy goodness evolved into a crippling need that pushed me into the dirty realm of frozen strawberries just to keep my calm until the new season began. It's a sick, sad disease. Until you've experienced it yourself, you have no idea the shame it carries.

As if strawberries alone were not enough, I let Marie Calendar's introduce me to the dizzying combination of a golden sweet crust, creamy filling, yummy whipped cream, and luscious strawberries. And once it's in your veins, there is no turning back. Yes, it's true. Strawberries are simply the gateway to a greater nirvana. Henceforth, that nirvana shall be called strawberry pie.

Last year, I found a dealer just down the road. Like any other shady dive, you had to make your way to the back where you walk with your head down, never make eye contact and slide your bills as discreetly as possible across the counter. Each trip I made ended with me learning there was no pie. I'd come too late. Other junkies got the itch before me and made off with the goods.

It didn't matter how early I went. Someone else always got there before me. I started thinking whomever it was had worked out an underhanded deal with the baker. In fact, I bet there was a gazillion pies still lingering about when I made my pitch for why I needed pie. I just didn't know the password or couldn't make a sneaky berry for berry trade. You know, my pristine blackberries for your scrumptious strawberries. The play for pie had gotten too complicated and I was way out of my league.

Not of my own design, but because I could not master the game, I had entered the world of strawberry detox. It was rough. I would smack my lips. Sweat as thick as juice dripped down my face. Every person I encountered turned into the tempting fruit. I was out of my head with tremors and hallucinations. Awful, I tell you. I was scared. I was edgy. I even began to curse the strawberry. I cursed it loudly! I cursed it often! Eventually, I broke free from its seedy

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