Yesterday was a pie-for-breakfast sort of day.  This morning I woke up and someone–more than likely my husband– had eaten the rest of the pie.   (I was sort of like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Carribean when he realizes that Elizabeth has burned all the rum.) 

“Yes, but where is the rum?”

“The rum is gone.”

“The rum is gone?”

“The rum is gone.”

Poor Johnny is bereft and miserable over losing the rum, and that’s how I am at the moment about the last piece of Japanese Fruit Pie I knew was in the fridge when I went to bed.  Now, I know what all of you are thinking.  What is she doing having pie for breakfast?  Well, it’s simple.

She is sick of eggs.  She is sick of ceral.  She is, believe it or not, sick of pop-tarts.  (People who know me well will be gasping in shock right now.  I have been known to cart pop tarts as far as Toronto to feed the former addiction.)

Alas, all I have wanted to eat for breakfast of late is pie and waffles, preferably pie.  I am out of waffles and I am out of pie. 

:::sigh:::

It’s out of my hands now.  I suppose I’ll have to eat the M&M’s I’ve hidden in the Raisin Bran box.