Cherry Pie

I know you’re not supposed to eat pie for breakfast. Every person I know as a child was always held just out of arm’s reach of the cookie jar. It’s a rite of passage, self-restraint. It is taught to us through a variety of cruel and benign methods throughout our formative years. Adults beat all the pure animosity out of us as hard and fast as they can. Personally, fear of social ridicule was the prominent association instilled in me regarding indulgence.

But no one is around right now. And this cherry pie is so moist. So warm. 

As I unfold the flap of the cardboard box that houses this confectionary marvel, I feel as though something is taking over me. Some sort of ritualistic instinct parallel to tribal initiations of my prehistoric ancestors. Or perhaps the baptism of an infant as they enter this world. 

I feel my heart start beating a little faster as the metal plate slides out of the box and into my clammy hand. The cool touch of it sends goose bumps up my arm.

Like an expert chef, I allow my limbs to go through the motions of grabbing a plate from the cupboard and opening the drawer for a fork, timing everything rhythmically. I do not fumble once; my eyes are on the pie.

My right eye closes as I align my knife to the imaginary line of the perfectly sized slice. I allow it to slowly sink into the flaky dessert, feeling a cherry or two burst with red ripeness. The fruity, tart aroma hits my nose, and I feel the familiar sting of my salivary glands at work. Fork in hand; I poise, ready to start my day on a sweet note.

But wait.

Pie for breakfast?

This is surely not to most nutritious option for me. There are eggs in the fridge. It would take 5 minutes to fry one up and slather some jam on a piece of whole wheat toast, chased down with fresh-squeezed orange juice. There’s also that almond cereal and low-fat yogurt, and peanut butter, and grapefruits, cashews, bananas, raisin bread, oatmeal… I want to live long, don’t I? I want to keep a trim figure, right?

Maybe I shouldn’t eat the pie. It’s bad training, like Pavlov’s dog. I didn’t really do anything to deserve this pie; perhaps I am spoiling myself. I’m sure Bill Gates and Leonardo da Vinci and Muhammad Ali never ate cherry pie for breakfast. They have self- control. Discipline. Their priorities are in line.

But does a piece of pie determine whether I have bad priorities? Does allowing myself one piece of pie mean I can’t have a successful career or have fulfilling relationships? Eggs can take a while to make, and cereal does get mushy. I don’t even really like grapefruits. Besides, I’ll have plenty of opportunities to eat healthy tomorrow, and the rest of my life. I could hit the gym tomorrow after school to make up for it. I’ve got to stay fit. I want to have a long, healthy life. I want to feel young as long as possible. I moisturize, for goodness sake. One piece of pie won’t make a difference.

But what if it does? What if I have some rare heart condition and my arteries are almost completely clogged, and I don’t even know it? What if I have high blood sugar and this cherry syrupy goodness pushes me over the edge? What if I become addicted to pie and eat it every morning for breakfast? Surely an afternoon at the gym won’t erase a pie addiction. I’d probably blow up like a balloon, and people would judge me. I can never walk into a McDonald’s again feeling fully confident that I shouldn’t be at some weight watchers meeting somewhere. What if I gain 400 pounds and can’t even walk anymore? My addiction will cause such topsoil erosion from sugar cane cultivation that the world will never have fertile lands again. Conflict will erupt over crops and World War 3 will ensue. I will have singlehandedly pushed the Global Warming snowball down Mount Everest because I had to have a stupid piece of pie!

All the sugar will rot my brain. Why did I think it was okay to eat it in the first place? Mother would not approve. They didn’t have this pie in the middle ages and people did okay. I’m definitely being too self-indulgent. There are people in Africa starving to death every day. They’re not just a number; a statistic we use to numb ourselves to the fact that those are real human beings like me suffering and dying. And I’m 

going to die too.

It’s true, I am.

Depriving myself of pie won’t solve the food shortage in developing countries. It won’t fix Global crises. It can’t somehow enable me to cheat death; everyone dies. What if I get hit by a truck when I leave the house today? I will have died without fulfilling my only last wish; savouring a piece of the finest, grocery store brand pie this section of my town has ever known. One person eating cherry pie can’t destroy the world. No, she can’t. If death is really nothing like my dad says, then it doesn’t matter what I do. It doesn’t matter if I eat pie once a month or once a year or every day. It won’t matter to me because I’ll be dead; just an expired biomass waiting to be decomposed in the bellies of worms and maggots. If there is a heaven, I won’t be locked out because I like cherry pie. I’m not hurting anyone. No one even knows I’m here. And if there’s anyone out there who can somehow read my mind right now, they’d either be bored and go read someone else’s thoughts, or think I’m insane and have me committed.

Either way it doesn’t matter because there’s nothing really after death. And no one is reading my mind. Right now there is nothing but me and this piece of pie that is needlessly getting cold. There will never be another pie like this. Sure, the factory follows the same recipe, but this is an individual pie made up of individual cherries from an individual tree that can never grow the exact same cherries again. I may never know what the experience that lies beyond this pie is like. And for what?

Because I’m afraid of getting fat. Because I am indulging myself. Because it is spoiled and pointless and impulsive and animalistic and this pie won’t make me a better person. It won’t enable me to cure cancer or become a successful poet or a good painter. 

Maybe eggs would do that.

But if I eat a normal breakfast today, like I do every other day, how can I be different than everyone else out there in the world who is slowly letting their precious days slip away, saying “I’ll take a chance tomorrow” because it’s too scary to change? How can I live a meaningful life if I never push boundaries or break the norm? Maybe how LONG you live isn’t what’s important. I think maybe it’s HOW you live that defines who you are. Not the food you eat, not the clothes you wear or the number of days you have or even what job you chose. I don’t know what age Albert Einstein or Helen Keller died at; we remember them by what meaning they gave their lives when they were here. I’m sure ol’ Al had some cherry pie in his day.

I look down at my pie.

This is it. The beginning of a new life. No more status quo for me. I can’t sit back and live the life people want me to live because it’s EASIER to fit it. In the end, I eat breakfast alone, so I have to do it for me. I can’t begin to live a meaningful life if I never challenge myself. And why not start here, now? This isn’t an impulse anymore; I’ve been standing here for ten minutes staring at my cherry pie. I’m going to do it!

Hmm. I notice an empty spot on the plate next to my cherry pie. Some vanilla ice cream could go nicely there.

But no, ice cream would be too much.

I take the first bite of my pie and smile and I fully experience this individual cluster of juicy cherries and buttery crust. Baby steps. 

I could always have ice cream for breakfast tomorrow.