It was a bright Saturday morning. The morning condensation from the rain was just beginning to dry as the sun began to rise from its sleep. The sound of birds and the cool breeze made the start of the day perfect. It was another fine day. A fine day for pie.
The small shops in the streets were just beginning to open, and I was curious to visit the famous pie house of the town. Upon my arrival to the house, an old man of the shop looked at me and flipped the sign on the door to read "open" so that I would come in. The shop represented an old-fashioned, Dutch style house; the walls were beige, the doors and floor were made of wood, and small chandeliers decorated the ceiling. The music in the background sounded like yodeling, perhaps the sounds of Northern-European folk music. I walked in and the old man handed me a menu and walked me over to a small booth. Not overly convinced with the decorative interior, I was certain that the menu would uphold my expectations of the supposedly famous pie house. An image on the bottom grabbed my attention: a delicious looking apple pie. I quickly made my mind and waved to the old man to order.

Being the impatient type, I could not sit still. Slowly, the aroma of cinnamon and apples filled the room. The scent of sweet caramel and cinnamon made its way up my nose, attacking my crying empty stomach. I was beginning to understand why this was the famous pie house of the town. Within a few minutes, the old man brought me my tasty order. The golden brown edges of the crust represented a wall, covering the surprises behind it. Just like the destruction of the Berlin Wall, I cut a piece of the pie, liberating the goodness that flowed from isolation. Marveled by the sight of caramel brown apples covered in cinnamon goo, I debated on how or where to encounter the pie first. Finally, I take my first bite. The warmth and gooey texture of the apple coating combined with a soft yet noticeably crisp crust, was perfectly balanced in texture and taste. I could taste the soft, carameled apples that still retained its tangy flavor. The immediate sweetness of the filling hits my inner fat kid that responded so strongly with an urge to take another bite. Almost like nostalgia, the sensation brought me comfort from my feelings in my childhood years. The warmth and sweetness of the pie best described the freedom and careless of childhood. The more I thought about it, living in the “land of the free”, I felt more free than ever. I could now see why apple pie was often coupled with the popular notion as the “American Dessert”.

All of a sudden, as if the pie was an addictive drug, I realized that the feelings of comfort and warmth could not go. My initial, small and slow bites became larger and faster. The feelings of this nostalgia and euphoria dominated by mind and taste buds. I became a prisoner to the pie as the taste could not leave my mouth. The chair became a monster, holding me down against my will. While the seductive aroma and beauty of the pie forces my magnet hands to scope another bite, my conscious superego tells me to stop. I was conflicted with the guilty feeling of consuming such a diet-forbidding food with my opposing conscious that was so focused on the alluring temptation suggested by the pie. Smaller and smaller, the pie was disappearing along with my taste invoking journey.
Not realizing what was going on around me, I looked up from my plate for the first time since my first bite of the apple pie. I could still hear the Northern European folk music playing and the sweet scent of apple pie from the kitchen. From the sunshine beaming from the window, I could tell it has only been a few minutes since my arrival to the shop. The shop was still empty. Confused, I quickly shook off the issue and went back to the attention demanding pie. The thing was, when I looked back at my plate, the pie was gone. There were no traces of crumbs or remains of the desert. More confused and puzzled than ever, I demanded an explanation. Then it came to me. Tracing back on my arrival of the shop, I had never actually received my order. It was all in my head the whole time! As if the whole experience was subliminally warning me something about the pie, I began to take my leave to the door. Then, in the midst of my confusion, the old man brought me my pie. Slowly, the sweet mouthwatering smell brought a eerily familiar tingling sensation down my spine. Yes it was another fine day. A fine day for pie.