I was raised
On Twinkies, Ring Dings, Devil Dogs
Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Sugar Smacks.
Refined sugar meant happiness.
An embarrassment of riches.

So I always equated fruit with
Punishment, deprivation, chores — and sadness.
Only nerdy, goody-two-shoes, health-conscious goyim
Eat fruit
Joyfully

Years later, as I perused the dessert menu
With a new beau
(Who became my husband)
He sweetly asked,
Would you like to share the strawberries and cream?

I know the operative word was “share”
He was trying to be romantic
And get closer to me
But I focused on his offer of fruit

It was all I could do not to stab him with a fork
For I had already spied the Molten Valhrona cake
And my warped blood chemistry was panting
For a decadent infusion.

There was an awkward pause
While I debated how much of myself to share
And whether to be honest or obsequious.
Truth won out.

I confessed, I don’t really like fruit
He paused and stared
I thought of my mother
For whom chocolate cured all ills.
Fruit makes me sad, I explained.

His eyes bugged out like a frightened lemur
Trying to decide is she quirky or crazy?
But he took the leap and asked,
Why does fruit make you sad?

With a sigh, I revealed
Because it’s not chocolate.