Spinach pies.
There is no describing the pleasure that courses through my body when I sink my teeth into a Spinach pie, but of course I am arrogant and I will presume to try and communicate it.
Spinach pies are bliss. They are life. The worst one is to me a work of art. The best is transcendent, it is an orchestra of taste and it puts my troubled mind to rest.
In the summer, I can't help but put aside half an hour here or there to bike uphill for some Spinach pies. I can't help be lured to that cluster of bakeries which swelter, which are full of honest bakers giving me life. If only they knew how much it meant to me! If only I could reach across this void and touch them and say, "you have made me the happiest person that ever existed. My life is now complete."
I once ate Somosas, but
to me they are rubbish now. They are crudely spiced, they are too starchy, they
don't have those juices which burst out. Somosas are wretched. I stop when I
see people eating them and I think, "have I traveled to some alternate
world where Spinach pies don't exist? Have I gone to a different time, a time
before the hills and valleys were rich with flowing waves of green spinach,
of pantries overflowing with benevolent beige triangles filled with just that
right goodness?"