Alive, with Cherry Hand Pies

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I should most definitely not be writing about cherry hand pies right now, for a few different reasons, but sometimes you just want to write the words that you want to write. I’ve worked really hard to get to a point in life where I get paid to write full time, but being paid to write full time means that you don’t have a lot of words left when it comes time to write the free ones.

cherry hand pies

cherry hand pies

I know I’ve been a bad blogger, and that that doesn’t necessarily come as a surprise anymore. But this year has just been… something else. At the moment, I’m working as the writer/script coordinator of a radio show and translating two books, one fiction, one non. I’m still trying to build the skeleton of my own book, but that’s been pushed to the back burner for now. There’s some other stuff mixed in there, too, but it’s really not important. What is important is that I get summer cherries off my chest, because it’s now October, and I’ve basically missed apple season, and squash is rolling past now, at this point.

I am cooking, and baking, when I can grab a window. But everything is so cerebral these days that, when I get the time to make something, I don’t want to process it. I don’t want to measure and take notes or photos. I just want to be absorbed in my senses — smell, taste and feel. I want to set out to make banana bread, sprinkle in spices until the batter sings when I lick it off the spoon, add a frosting at the last minute by pouring in a little of this, a little of that, until it looks good, and dump a cap full of rum into the pot of caramel drizzle to watch it sizzle up the sides, without thinking, “I should write this down…”

cherry hand pies cherry hand pies

cherry hand pies

But enough of that right? The important thing is, cherry hand pies. I have a thing with these. Not these ones, actually, but the Hostess kind. We didn’t have a lot when I was growing up, but there was a shop across the railroad tracks that sold a bunch of industrialized bakery items that were about to go off at a massive discount, and my mother would take us there about once every week or two. When we went, if we were lucky, we would get to choose one thing to have as a snack. My brother tended to go for something different every time, but I snatched up a Hostess cherry fruit pie without fail.

cherry hand pies cherry hand pies

cherry hand pies

If you can get those delicious little chalky bars of preservatives here in Korea, I don’t know where, and that’s probably a good thing, because I suspect they wouldn’t bring quite as much joy to my adult palate. I once tried Hamburger Helper in college for nostalgia’s sake, and it was a mistake. As was the one time in 15 years I decided to eat at Taco Bell. Some things are better left to the hazy romance of memory and childhood tastebuds.

But these were lovely, and did just enough to stroke the angry little ball of homesickness I’d been sheltering in my gut until it purred, rolled over and stretched out for a nap in the sun.

cherry hand pies cherry hand pies cherry hand pies

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