BRADY DOES THE BREASTSTROKE
(This one's for Winston)

Went this afternoon down toward the beach to a large and renowned supermarket of the AmeriCal kind whose Grand Canyon aisles I love to wander, soaking up the full spectrum of largesse on offer-- the football fields of ice cream choices and the shorelines of beer selections, all unknown in my honorable country of residence.

The acreage of root beer alone always gives me pause, as do the Everests of cheeses, the cliffs of wines. Today, like one without a compass I stumbled into the Eden of the baked goods section and there in the distance beheld - do my eyes deceive me - what appeared to be an elaborate architecture of pies that Antonio Gaudi would have admired greatly, a Sagrada Familia of pies. Drawing nearer, I beheld towers of pies of apple, chocolate creme, key lime, lemon meringue, coconut creme, cherry, berry, pecan - the list outruns my pen - all clearly on personal terms with heaven.

As I drew nearer, my eyes already swimming as in a sea of pies with their frothy peaks and scalloped crusts, all I could I do was dive in mentally and perform the breaststroke, the butterfly, the crawl, and snorkel to the luscious depths, then return to the crust, roll onto my back and just float in supreme deliciousness-- the mind can do wondrous things far from shore in an ocean of pies.

Didn't buy anything though, since I still had a Gibraltar of cherry pie a la mode to finish at home-- but now I know where they are.

This is good, for there is truth in pies that cannot be plumbed elsewhere.