Following our routine after selecting the week’s produce, Dad waited in the deli area while I finished the grocery shopping. My cart heavy-laden, I circled back to gather Dad and his cart and to head together to the register. As we passed slowly by a stack of boxed pastries, Dad picked up the top box and looked longingly at the apple fritters. “I sure would like to have an apple fritter,” he lamented, teetering on temptation’s edge. I understood the angst with which he contemplated the moist deep-fried fritters covered with white sugar icing: I, too, ached for a bite of blissful sweetness. We stood in silent solidarity, Dad with his fear of diabetes and me with my fear of being fat. He put the box down with genuine sadness. We squared our shoulders and walked toward the register, leaving desire behind us. “When we get home,” I offered, “I’ll make us some French crêpes rolled around sliced fresh bananas, peaches, and strawberries, with dollops of stevia-sweetened whipped cream.” “That sounds wonderful,” Dad said. “Let’s do it.”
I love the alliteration in this piece, Roger; forbidden fritters, teetering on temptation’s edge, silent solidarity. I hope you enjoyed your crepes.
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Thanks! I try not to overdo it