I went to the Berkeley Bowl to buy cherries today, and came out with 6.36 pounds of the buggers after spending 20 minutes picking over the baskets. It was relaxing — hunting for the good ones with the other shoppers, exchanging remarks of cherry love, eating cherries until you get sick, how much better they are this year than last year. There were three varieties — Bing, Rainer, and Tulare. I hadn’t heard of the last one, but the one I tasted was good. Unfortunately they are not all for me. Some are destined for a pie, and some to a dinner party.

I wonder what parent invented the tale of cherry trees/watermelon vines growing out of their childrens’ bellybuttons. It’s one of those ideas that’s good on paper but doomed to failure on me. Think of how cool it would be to have your own cherry tree with you wherever you went!

Crumpets, those most holey of breakfast buns, are to be enjoyed with butter, jam, or marmelade. I, being the transgressive fool that I am, couldn’t be bothered to root around in the fridge for these divine spreads and instead took out the cream cheese. Oh sacrilege! Forgive me, Crumpet Gods, I knew not what I did!

Attend, my fellow breakfasters! Cream cheese does not make everything taste better. If you wish to rise at the final crumpet’s call, heed not not the siren song of Philadelphia, for it is the path to everlasting queasiness!

Our Crumpet in Refrigeration, hallowed be thy name, thy toasting come, thy top be spread at breakfast as it is in Heaven.