I have a recurring dream where I'm standing at the gates of heaven, and just as I'm about to take my first step to enter, St. Peter informs me, "Sir, I know how your really like to eat, so I should inform me that in heaven there is no . . ." And then he completes the sentence with something like BBQ, beer, bourbon, bacon, or pie. This dream/nightmare stirs anxiety in me as I face the dilemma of what to do next.
Sometimes St. Peter informs me that there are no cinnamon rolls in heaven, and this stirs defiance on my part. After hearing about the absence of cinnamon rolls in heaven, I burst into a profanity-laced tirade. There's no way I'm stepping through those pearly gates. I know that when contemplating heaven I shouldn't concern myself with earthly matters, but my stomach's spiritual compass can be a bit wonky.
PS. . . I'm not a Neil Young fan because his voice grates on me, but for some reason on the day I drove down from the mountain from Estes Park to Loveland, I listened to his album Rust Never Sleeps. Let me tell you: It's perfect music for driving down a mountain.