KLONIE JORDAN — Executive Editor (editor@gaffneyledger.com) I got up Sunday morning, dragged myself into the den, plopped down in my favorite recliner, turned the television on and watched the first half of some movie I’ve already seen a dozens times.

Then I had myself some breakfast.

Wanna know what I had for breakfast?

Why the breakfast of champions, of course.

That is, if your champion is a Pilgrim getting ready to have some dessert after the big feast with the Indians. That’s right, I had me some pumpkin pie for breakfast.

Two pieces.

With whipped cream on top.

Now you’re thinking about those boring eggs and sausage you had for breakfast and hating me, aren’t you?

The missus had whipped this pie up for no apparent good reason. I reckon she must have seen some newfangled recipe in one of those women’s magazines she reads, or maybe she saw it on one of those TV shows she watches when I’m not around to properly supervise how the remote controls are used.

Anyway, it was made with part sugar and part artificial sweetener, which, by the way, means nothing to me. She was explaining the production process to me right before she asked me if I would like a slice. She was using these fancy-shmancy terms and when she was finished, all I had heard was the word “pie” so I said yes. She could have said cowpatty pie and I would have said yes.

But it wasn’t the product of the bovine digestive tract. No sir, it was actual pumpkin pie. The kind you get at Thanksgiving or at Christmas.

And it was good, too, because, you see, my wife can cook. This is why I love her so. Because I sit in my recliner underneath my cozy Limestone College afghan (because, in the words of David Putty on the Seinfeld episode in which he painted his face before going to the New Jersey Devils game — “you gotta support the team”) and she brings me stuff to eat.

How cool is that?

And it’s even more cool if the stuff she brings me is of the sweet variety and on the borderline of stuff I’m not supposed to have. I can hear Dr. Barnhill now — “You had WHAT for breakfast?”

And then we got ready to go to church and while I should have been preparing my frame of mind for morning worship, I must admit that the pumpkin pie was still stuck in there somewhere between the first hymn and the closing prayer.

Before we left, I eased into the kitchen when she wasn’t looking to make sure there was more pumpkin pie left and I was even kind of entertaining the thought of sneaking out another piece, but I fought off that notion and decided to wait until later.

And then it occurred to me — how much later? When would I ever get to taste another slice of that pie? What if — GULP — she was going to donate the rest of it to charity.

How could I possibly go on with my life knowing that some stranger somewhere was gobbling up the tasty dessert treat that was rightly mine?

So I thought I had better check.

“Honey, what are we going to do with the rest of this pumpkin pie?” I yelled into the bedroom.

“I’m taking it down to mom’s and we’re going to have it for lunch,” she answered.

You know that happy dance Snoopy does whenever he’s thrilled about something? You know how he sticks his nose up in the air and dances around to and fro while making that quasi-humming noise? Well, that’s what I did right there in the kitchen.

So all during the church service, I was preoccupied with getting more of that pie. And I know I should have tried better to concentrate harder but ... but ... but ... well, you just would have to taste this pie and then you would understand.

There was some singing and the preacher had a nice sermon. It was very insightful and thought-provoking, but to tell you the truth, all I heard was “pie.”

And after it was over, I hurried from the church over to the in-laws’ house and then I wolfed down some spaghetti real fast so I could get to the dessert.

And when the pie came — with the whipped cream on top — I made short work of it.

And then I asked for more.

But guess what?

There was no more.

Me so sad now.

Oh well, Thanksgiving is just around the corner.