Apple Pie.

Carmel Apple Pie

Carmel Apple Pie is everything good in the world. It is enough for me. It is simple complexity. Most people eat one thought out, emotionless, and organized slice of cake, but I delve into perfectly done yet utterly unorganized strips of apples with pockets of distinct beauty hidden underneath shelter. My life is a constant battle to swim with those who are swamped, walk with those who are weighted, talk with those who are tangled, run with those who are wrapped, speak with those who are speechless, sit with those who are sick. I get away from the world; I close the world outside; I lock myself in a chamber of untouchable. My life with Carmel Apple pie is unchangeable. My life with Carmel Apple pie is me. It will stay the same forever, just as the color my eyes will never wander from their boring brown hue.

Carmel Apple Pie is of a higher status than that of regular ol’ apple pie. It’s funny how you’re not allowed to compare anything these days. We all have to be completely fair with the words which we speak. It is like how you have to tell your Aunt Magdalena that you enjoy everything on your plate, when really most of it is awful except for one unfathomable quadrant of your meal, that without thinking it possible, you actually love. You are careful; I am careful. Carmel Apple Pie is more than best, and I’ll certainly and shamelessly profess it to the world. I will not be careful to be fair in saying so. You can tell a lot about a person based upon which kind of apple pie they pride themselves in, if any at all. The people who don’t see apple pie for its grandeur are a completely different story. The crumbles of brown sugar, which live on the top to face the world proudly, keep the secrets of the pie hidden. The unspoken insides stay hidden, only to be discovered by souls who wish to venture deeper into the discovery of being filled up with apples: with life.

The most mentionable Carmel Apple Pie is locked safely inside of the binds of Costco. It takes perseverance to get one of these pies, especially if you’re a child. The list of required necessary actions is lengthy and completely worth it. I would rather spend my life acquiring these apple pies than filling out paperwork, racing to complete the to-do lists which I have scattered onto countless shallowly colorful post-it notes, attending meetings, and feeling as though I barely have time to allow my body to breathe in deeply. I don’t know how to breathe in deeply. Being with a piece of pie which is partly protruding off my plate pleases my pressed schedule. Apple Pie reminds me of when I was ten years old and my mother began to trust me. She trusted me to be her help. My mother has always needed my help, but she didn’t realize that when I was ten. The apples were sour green. I peeled the skin off each one of the tart green balls of splendor. My mother devised the perfect plan for the crust. She instructed, and I admired. The end result was contentment. The process of making a pie far outweighs the indulgence of devouring one. Making the pie with my mother that day when I was ten links apple pie all the way to my forgettable childhood. Apple pie is everything good in the world.