How I love them. Those red, plump, round cherries—succulent and wet, rolling nicely in your mouth. You can pop them, concurrently crisp and chunky, and suck suck suck in that tangy-sweet sensation. Back in the days whenever my mother would whip up some fruit salad of sort she would open a can of del monte fruit cocktail, and I would have to compete with everyone for that lone red cherry mixed in the cocktail of pointless grapes, pineapples, and other pieces of crap. It was so alone, as alone as the pork in pork and beans. It would be years later that an elder would rebuke us. It’s not genuine cherry, he would say. It’s just a painted grape or some pedestrian fruit. Maybe he was tricking us, so he could eat the damn cherry himself. This would lead to me forgetting all about cherries.
Until years later when I saw an X-Files episode entitled Chinga where this evil girl with an evil doll was in Dairy Queen. She had just finished her ice cream, and she went to the counter. You know what she said? She said “I want more cherries.” And the snooty counter girl told her, “You gotta ask your mom for more money, sweetie.” And girl repeated, “I WANT MORE CHERRIES!” And you know what she did when counter girl wouldn’t give her any more cherries? She (or was it her evil doll?) telekinetically made counter girl’s hair get caught in some ice cream machine which pulled her scalp out. See, if someone tells you she wants some cherries, she means she wants some fucking cherries!!!
Recently went in the usual sponsored hotel dinners, and one of the desserts was this tiny cake on which you would put a cherry on top. I didn’t put the cherry on top—I got a plate of cherries and put the tiny cake on top! Because you don’t turn cherry into a garnish, it is food in itself and it is the food that you garnish!!!
I apologize for the cherry rage. I just want some cherries.