They certainly hadn’t planned it that way. But driving along the long rolling highway at three pm, Rachael burst forth brightly from the backseat: “Oh, we’ve really got to stop there, do you see that sweet little farmhouse? The sign says pie! Don’t you have the munchies just a little bit?”

Mike, the driver/cameraman (the foodnetwork couldn’t afford both) rolled his eyes. He didn’t complain, however; he liked pie.

Rachael sighed bubbly: “I remember when I was younger and my sister and I used to eat day-old cake from the bakery after school. Somehow driving just made us so hungry and we could never wait until we got home, we would just take turns shifting so we could stuff our faces with...”

“Oh come on,” Mike goaded. “We already heard that one on Chefography.” Mike knew the story because he had filmed that segment, too. He remembered how picky Rachael had been about the body double he cast for the shifting scene reenactment. “God what a b*#$@…” he accidentally let slip.

Rachael looked glum only for a moment. She perked up quickly when Mike took the left exit off of route 7 and turned down the gravel drive where the painted sign was pointing. This trip wasn’t part of the plan because they hadn’t even made it to Columbus for the State Fair yet; Rachael was always getting side-tracked somewhere. Then again, Mike couldn’t blame her for wanting to spend all forty of her dollars so promiscuously and profusely.

At the end of the long drive there was an orchard and the green-shuttered farmhouse. “I wonder what type of pies they have!” Rachael exclaimed, “It looks so quaint! Like they really know how to bake a mean sour cherry!” Mike had already bolted from the front seat; barely putting the green honda minivan in gear.

A woman in a floral apron greeted the pair from the broad wooden porch, grandmotherly arms open wide in welcome. “What can I get for you, dearies?” she queried. “Today’s special is Pecan’N’Peach.” Mike’s camera was rolling, his stomach growling.

“Ah, but how much do the pies cost?” Rachael arched one eyebrow, smirking curiously into the camera.

“How much ya got?” The old woman rejoined. “These here pies been baking since four-o-clock in the morning! The crust is kneaded by hand for three hours each day and the peaches are sweet and golden as geese! I’ll tell you what though—since you look so sweet yourself I’ll make a deal. One ENTIRE Martha Joä pie, farm fresh and piping-hot from the oven for the penny-pinching price of only forty dollars.”

Mike gasped. “I’ll take it!” Rachael cried, “Today there shall be nothing but pie!!” She grinned horribly and Mike recoiled from the brilliantly evil glint in her eyes.

In less than two minutes flat, Martha Jo returned with a basketball sized pecan pie and a half-gallon of heavy whipping cream. She deposited the delectable items on the polished wooden surface separating the seated Rachael and Mike; the pie dropped with a densely heavy thud.

The smell of sweet carmelized sugar and warm brandy-cured peaches filled the air as syrupy juices bubbled oozingly from the golden-brown and perfectly flaky crust. “Bon Apetit!” Martha Jo grunted, smiling wildly and handing her two victims patrons gigantic forks.

Mike kept the camera rolling, struggling against the intense aroma. Mesmerized, Rachael uttered incoherently: “This, looks…mmmm…sooo…” and proceeded to carve into the baked behemoth. Without hesitating, she scooped out a steaming glob of pecan’n’peach flesh and drew the sweet mess slowly towards her lips, mouth open and eyes shining as if suspended between ecstasy and despair.
--K.R.