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Monday, September 19, 2005
It's my latest obsession. I pass restaurants and wonder, do they have it?
On Labour Day, I drove three cities over to a place distant from now in time, a place I used to frequent long, long ago.
They had it. One last slice sat in the display.
The man behind me said to his friend, "I am going to get that slice of cherry pie."
Ha! I snatched it from before his eyes.
Then the test. Was it as good as they led me to believe?
Forking aside the whipping cream, I prepared one mouthful.
Sour. And sweet. Like a raspberry, almost. The pie crust provided the appropriate butter blandness to offset the fizz-bang.
Cherry pie passed the test. I officially like - nay!- love cherry pie.
The next week I drove 100 kilometres for cherry pie.
It's all Agent Cooper's fault.
In a Twin Peaks marathon spanning two weekends, I went through the pilot episode, the entire first season and the tie-in movie.
Squinting away flapping fingernails, the references to cherry pie and damn good coffee and Douglas firs made me want to rush out and give myself a coffee enema atop a Douglas fir.
Cherry pie was my second option.
Now don't you give away Season Two.
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