For me pie is home. Pie is standing next to my mum with floury hands, nibbling scraps of crust, watching her chop rhubarb and slice strawberries. Pie is the tiniest of rolling pins and tins given to me one Christmas so I could bake alongside all the grownups. Pie is Thanksgiving, where each of my aunts comes bearing the pie they are best at baking and the phrase, "I'll just have a tiny slice of each" is uttered by every single person at some point after the coma-inducing meal. Pie is eating warm raspberry pie with my grandmother, with berries picked fresh from her garden and an extra large dollop of homemade whipped cream. Pie is moving into my first apartment away from home and realizing that my mum packed a rolling pin and a pastry cutter into my kitchen supplies, just in case. Pie is a year of Sunday night baking. Pie is the discovery of favorite recipes, miniature pies, birthday pies, breakfast pies, and pie journeys.
There are still so many things to learn, pie people to meet, and new bakeries in which to do both of those things that I have yet to visit. Occasionally, pie shops or pie plans fall through and I have to re-think where to go next. Sometimes, usually when I've packed way too much and am trying to navigate public transportation, I feel like a chicken with my head cut off. Running from here to there, only staying a moment, (yes, it's gotten to the point where a month feels like a moment) meeting new people, making new friends only to leave and start all over again.
Sometimes is seems overwhelming. When my head is spinning from all that needs to get done, when I can't seem to turn my mind off long enough to sleep, when it feels like I'm never in one place long enough, I have to go back to pie. I take a deep breath and remember what pie is for me. Pie is home.
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