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 chains.
And then... I walked past the bakery last night. There it was in all its glory; The Holy Grail for berry addicts worldwide. A beautiful round piecrust filled to the brim with large, lovely, deep red strawberries. I stared it down. It was just the strawberries and I. It was a grudge match between triumph and temptation, good and evil, happiness and failure. And I won!
Today, however, I folded quicker than you can say, "I would die for strawberry pie!"
Yeah, I bought a pie. I hurried home and admired it. Trying to show restraint, I allowed myself a single bite before dinner. Throughout my meal I anticipated more pie. I even had to force myself to eat, because I didn't want dinner. I wanted strawberry pie. I rushed a little. I moved my food about my plate so if I questioned myself later, I could at least pretend I'd possibly eaten some of my meal.
The time had come. The strawberry pie was anxiously waiting to be consumed. I was all a quiver. I reached into the fridge and with a grace beyond comprehension, I proceeded to dump every last bit of pie onto the floor. Some of it landed on the refrigerator. Some of it landed in the cat's food bowl. Most of it landed strawberry side down, right in the center of my kitchen floor.
In a heart wrenching moan I heard myself plead, "Oh no! Not my pie!"
And God said, "You shall not eat the strawberry."
I guess He figured if I hadn't learned strawberry pie was not to be in my future based on the last year of pie hunting failures, He might as well be blatantly clear. He was. I get it. I'm just a twisted junkie looking for my berry fix, man. Have mercy on me.