Straus-shmaus, let's talk about the cherries

Well before I became a parent, a dear girlfriend once confessed that when there was just a little of some particularly good sweet in the house, she would eat it herself and give her son a handfull of chocolate chips. "He doesn't know the difference," she rationalized.

As someone with a picky palate and fierce cravings, I admired this attitude. Despite the Straus/Benoît obsession, I always planned to follow it myself. So now that cherries are finally looking good, I'm getting a chance to practice this philosophy in earnest.

For those who forget easily, we had a horribly rainy Spring. This did no favors to farmers, and apparently the California cherry crop was not spared. It's coming in late, small and spendy; $7 per pound for farmers market cherries is not unusual. To my mind, this is dear fruit indeed. But cherries are something I will happily eat till I have a stomach ache more than once each season. So a few times in recent weeks, I've carefully picked a pound of the darkest, plumpest Bings and brought them home to hoard. I dutifully slice MZ a bowl of organic grapes while I chow down on my luxurious cherries.

I've offered her cherries once or twice. She likes them fine. But as my friend opined, she really doesn't know the difference.