Buy the Cherry Pie

Even if no one else will eat it

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I’m the only one in my family who likes cherry pie.

My first taste of a cooked cherry dessert must’ve been the cobbler from school lunch. I’m one of those kids who liked my school lunches. My small, rural Louisiana school had actual cafeteria ladies who cooked our meals from scratch. Most of my childhood non-Vietnamese meals were eaten from a plastic tray with divided sections. It felt very all-American as one of two Asian kid in my school. (The other one is my sister.)

Cobbler, with its fluffy biscuit-like topping is a Southern mainstay, but I’m not picky about the vessel for cherry dessert. There’s something about the combination of sweet, buttery, and tart that makes my taste buds light up. Perhaps my early childhood food experiences—dominated by the salty-sweet-sour-bitter-spicy profiles of Vietnamese foods, post-Sunday mass Krispy Kreme donuts served along with styrofoam cups of orange juice, and the occasional McDonald’s cheeseburger—make me favor the juxtaposition of flavor profiles.

No one else in my family eats cherry pie. Not my husband who spent half his childhood in Louisiana nor my two kids.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve eyed that wobbly, hand-crimped circle of flaky crust and sticky cherry filling at the bakery but talked myself out of taking one home. I defer to my family, who would rather go for apple pie—double crust or crumb topping. I don’t consume a lot of sweets so it’s impractical to buy a large pie that only I will eat. At least that’s what I told myself.

Perhaps it’s the frugality from being raised by immigrant parents. My parents were masterful at using every last bit of food. Fish heads turned into canh chua, a sweet savory soup with tomatoes, fish, and pickled mustard greens. If a store-bought herb came home with any root tendrils, my dad would stick it some dirt to see if it would grow. Most of the time it did. That man has plant magic that I’ll never possess.

Maybe it’s because I’ve so used to putting others’ needs before mine that I’ve convinced myself that I don’t need cherry pie. I started early as the eldest child of immigrants who often translated English documents into my stilted Vietnamese.

Then when I became a parent.

I’ve been a mother for over twenty years. When your kids are young, it’s almost instinctual to put your needs last because you’re doing your damnedest to make sure the kids stay alive. Sleep can wait when babies are hungry, tired, or need a diaper change.

Soon putting myself last became so second nature that I didn’t realize I was doing it. Like when the only vegetable the your kid will eat is broccoli flowers then you eat the stems instead of tossing them in the garbage. Or telling myself that I didn’t mind eating pasta every week for dinner because the kids loved it and it was an easy meal to cook when you’re exhausted. Compromising little things didn’t feel like a big ask.

Somewhere during those twenty years, I forgot what my favorite foods were. Compromising took less energy when I had to meal plan while juggling my kids’ aversions du jour. Thankfully my husband, who was raised by a single mother, was very easygoing about what he ate.

Yet whenever we perused the bakery department at our grocery story, my eyes wandered to the cherry pies.

Last week at Sprouts, one such pie caught my eye. I picked it up gingerly and peeked through the clear plastic like it was a centerfold. The weight of the box was satisfying, promising me a good time if only I took it home.

The pie was beautiful. Golden brown crust speckled with tiny sugar crystals. It must’ve been bathed in an egg wash before basking in the heat of the oven. Glints of purple-red cherry filling spilled from the steam circle in the center of the pie as if to beckon You know you want me.

I slid it back on the shelf and set my sights on something with more universal family appeal: chocolate chip cookies or cinnamon rolls.

My husband—who probably didn’t realize his wife was lusting over pastry—asked me what I’d put back.

“Cherry pie. It’s too much pie. No one else likes it.” I rambled with more excuses.

“Get it,” he insisted in a playful, gentle tone that I call The Enabler. He’s very good at it.

I frowned.

“It’s only seven dollars. So what if you don’t eat the whole thing?”

He was right. Gone were the days where I had to wait for double coupon days and a strict shopping list in order to feed our family on a tight budget. We were lucky enough now that a seven dollar pie wouldn’t break the bank.

Friends, I put the pie in our shopping cart and took the sexy double crust home.

I’m still the only one in my family who eats cherry pie.

The big picture things were somehow easier for me to prioritize. Writing novels, starting a subscription box business, and (finally ) getting my sex educator certification.

Since my kids were old enough to understand, I’ve told them that I love my work and hobbies. I wanted to model how important it is to have things you love outside of raising/being with family. They never questioned it nor felt ignored because they saw how happier I was when I was doing those things.

The little things—food preferences and picking out family movies—are where I lost my voice. I lost myself each time I pretended that it didn’t matter what I wanted as long as everyone else wanted it. As long as it made life easier. But easier for whom?

It’s taken me over twenty years to realize how challenging it would be to buy a whole pie that only I would eat. Getting rid of old habits take time and practice. As does reminding myself that my needs and desires are as important as my family’s—no matter how small. There’s both a sweet and tart side to changing who we thought we’re supposed to be versus who we really are.

I’m finding myself again. One slice of cherry pie at a time.

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