Maria Lammers looked stunned when she heard the news from this reporter. Wiping her hands on her well-worn cook's apron, the bespectacled owner of the 25-year-old Gallagher's farm market and bakery could barely contain her excitement: "That's wonderful! That's great!" Fire up your ovens! It's a new dawn at the National Cherry Festival, for 72 years a celebrated rite of summer in quaint Traverse City, Mich. For the first time in more than two decades, you'll be able to buy a slice of freshly made cherry pie at the fest, which runs all next week along the breathtaking Grand Traverse Bay of Lake Michigan. Not since Gerald and Betty Ford decided to stop by in 1975 has a development created such a stir at the gathering.
Yes, the crowds are expected to set records (about 100,000 a day projected), and the tart-cherry harvest looks to be of epic proportions, but the real shocker this year is the lifting of the official ban on the sale of single slices of fresh pie. Huh? For years, as a major sponsor, the Sara Lee Corp. has operated nothing less than a pie cartel during the cherry confab. The only slice of pie a visitor could buy was Sara Lee's, thanks to a sweet deal with festival officials. But in a saga evocative of the breakup of AT&T, the defrosting of Sara Lee's virtual monopoly has the locals chortling. "I don't know that I've ever eaten pie there," said 18-year-old college student Ginger Hagan, a festival regular. "But I might, now that there's a choice."
The pristine northwestern pocket of Michigan has long been defined by its bountiful and delicious cherry crop. Old-timers insist that the region's soul lives within the sprawling orchards. But the festival's banners, posters and promotional material tell a different story. The event these days seems not so much a celebration of a cherished fruit as a paean to corporate America. Everywhere you go, you are reminded that "Ameritech presents the National Cherry Festival." Pontiac, Pepsi, American Airlines and A.1 steak sauce have attached themselves to the blossom. More than a third of the festival's $2.2 million budget is underwritten by some 60 corporations. The truth is, the festival hasn't been about cherries in decades--something that locals tend to acknowledge only in hushed tones. Around here, it's almost sacrilegious to diss the festival. "Most people aren't really interested in learning about the cherry industry," concedes 50-year-old Eddie Baur (no, not that one), owner of a downtown liquor store. Instead "it's about the carnival, air shows and concerts," says Baur. Even this year's festival president, David Skibowski, admits that he doesn't care much for cherries. "I'm not a big fruit person," he says.