6:40 p.m. - 2004-08-01
I can see the pie cooling in the kitchen window. The light breeze plays fickle with the steam that wisps its way upward. Yet the smell beckons me towards it, itís juices still bubbling up over the flaky edge. Droplets of butter mixed with spices and apple nectar oozing up through the holes so lovingly cut into the crust. Oh, yes . . .
Yet Ė dare I snatch it from the neighbours house? All to aid a potluck at Firemindís?