PEACH PIE AND PERSEVERANCE
I am hunched over in pain, imaginary rodents gnawing at my intestines, interrupted by occasional waves of nausea.
Is the day over yet? Can I go home yet? Please make it end.
It’s my own fault for flinging myself into summer like a horny millennial at a foam party in Cancun. Determined to fill my basket with sunshine (not like that, perverts), I ran errands this past weekend in rural Hamilton, driving past roadside strawberry stands, farmers’ fields and seasonal markets. I will eat it all, I thought to myself. And I kind of meant that quite literally. Pretty much. But it turns out that eating it all at a country farmers market ain’t cheap. And being that I also promised myself I’d stay on a sorta budget this summer, I had to choose carefully.
And so, after hemming and hawing and sniffing and gazing, I settled on a pint of strawberries and a small, freshly baked peach pie from one market known for its freshly baked pies. As if there was ever any question, really. Peach pie will always win the contest, no matter what the contest, unless it’s a Worst Pie contest, which, I mean … why would anyone hold that contest? Come on.
But it has to be fresh peach pie, in season, made with real ingredients, which means peach pie = summertime. So basically, it’s a once a year treat (even though I could probably be convinced to battle the mobs at the Winona Peach Festival later this summer, too). And it was small. Like, mini. A personal pie. So I cut it into quarters, intending to savour it over a few days.
When the stomach pangs began that first day, I blamed them on something else. It was probably the fish and rice I had for dinner, I thought. Definitely the healthy, broiled fish, sprinkled with lemon and a touch of olive oil and not the shortening-laden wedge of peach deliciousness that followed. But the pain subsided later that evening and so I put it out of my mind.
On the second day of peach pie, I assumed a stomach virus was afoot. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt such severe abdominal pain, other than that vicious bout of food poisoning from a burger I picked up in Belleville that one time.
That food poisoning knocked me so far off my ass, I honestly thought I’d never recover.
But still, I lived in denial. It most definitely wasn’t the peach pie. And after a few hours it went away so, nope, not a bug, either.
On Day 3 I stared down that tiny peach slice and wondered. How could you? Why would you? It can’t be. Bah, whatever. And I ate it anyway, all the while wondering if I would get sick. But you don’t not eat fresh peach pie. You just don’t. Even if you think it might be making you sick, you take the chance. Because if you’re wrong … well, then, you’ve really missed out, haven’t you?
Which brings us here to Day 4. The last slice. And I must tell you that even though I was pretty certain the peach pie was the culprit, I ate that last slice anyway.
Why? See above. Also because, well, I’m just not especially bright, I suppose, but whatever.
My friend Ernest ate his way through every roadside stand in India, even though it put him in the hospital. And when he recovered, he did it again. I wouldn’t (and didn’t) do the same, but I wholly admire his determination. We should all live like Ernest once in a while, providing it doesn’t kill us (it kind of almost did him, but that’s another matter entirely).
Anyway, as it turns out, Pepto Bismol is kind of a miracle drug. And it’s making me feel a whole world better.
Now I kind of understand why my garbage-eating dog never learns her lesson. Pepto cures all.