Jane Rosemont, New Mexico
Because I grew up in Michigan, where tart cherries grew in abundance, cherry pie was a staple. Like macaroni and cheese, or toast with peanut butter, it was comfort food. Cherry pie meant “home.” Once a year in June, when my dad’s birthday rolled around, mom would pull out all the stops and make his favorite: raisin pie. Because my parents were kind and selfless, I could never bring myself to tell them I didn’t care for it. It was simply too sweet for my taste. But I ate it anyway and smiled through it because it made dad so happy.
Once the raisin pie was gone, usually within a day, it was back to cherry pie and I didn’t have to fake my pleasure.