I was a bit different as a kid. I mean compared to other of my peers. I didn't sneak sweets. I actually ate only meat, fruit and even some vegetables. I know that might sound a bit strange to most parents. My preferences might have been related to the reality that my mother kept me on baby foods until I was about twenty-eight. In retrospect, I realize that none of the major babyinfant food companies squeeze a pureed serving of a fudge brownie into a small glass jar.

My candy consumption was also limited. After I would come home from trick or treating every Halloween night, my mother would make me dump my goodies on the floor, where we would both seat ourselves, cross-legged. We would sort them into three piles. Into one of those piles would go everything that was made by the generous Mrs. Robertson. Those went straight into the garbage, because Mom was sure that Mrs. Robertson let her fourteen cats walk all over the kitchen counters. The pile next to the toxic contributions of Mrs. Robertson was made up of any apples and small boxes of raisins that I had been given. The apples were always provided by the two dentists who lived in our neighborhood. Those were deemed suitable for me. I can't say for certain what happened to the third grouping--the one that contained all the candy, the caramel apples and the popcorn balls. As soon as the sorting was finished, my mom hastily took those into my parent's bedroom. They never again appeared. The only time I ever was allowed to have candy was when I visited one pair of grandparents. (My other grandparents only tried to give me buttermilk. I resent cows to this day.)

I subsequently learned not to blame my mother for my almost sugarless upbringing. I now know that somewhere there is a hidden school for mothers where they learn to protect their children from all things with a pleasurable flavor. I noticed that when my son was growing up, his mother hid all his candy after Halloween, too. However my wife has never revealed the exact curriculum of this top secret school.

At twenty-nine, just as I was beginning to learn that meat, vegetables and applesauce do not have identical textures in their natural states, I discovered dessert in the form of a gourmet cheesecake. Actually, I now know that the word gourmet is rarely applied to anything that comes from the discount grocery store in an ugly box with a small cellophane peep hold. The cheesecake turned out to be mostly chemicals--delicious chemicals. But to my mouth that was primarily accustomed to pale brown meat in almost liquid form and thoroughly mashed green beans, it was heavenly.

Later in life, as I belatedly went through my experimental wild years, I learned that cheesecake could taste much less like cardboard than my first sample. (Please don't ask why I know how cardboard tastes.) I also discovered that cheesecake can come in a variety of flavors besides blueberry.

Dessert is now my favorite time of day. The best way to top off a well balanced meal of two jars of meat, three jars of thoroughly squashed squash and a banana is with a slice of turtle cheesecake. Don't allow this news to leak to my mother, though; she'll just take it to her bedroom.

The saddest part of this story is that I don't even know how to make a cheesecake. Please tell me if you have a good recipe. Make sure that your recipe doesn't require using either an oven or a whisk. I can operate a blender, though, since I took notes while my mother prepared the Christmas ham one year.

Author's notation: I may have taken some creative liberties with slight exaggerations here and there, but I'm not concerned about being caught. My mother is still not sure what the Internet is.