;

To: Everybody involved in running Pasadena Bakery, and everyone who makes up a part in their lives, and the lives of these and those and so on.
PIECYCLE

I am writing a letter in praise of something you made, but I would not be truly sincere if I was to say that I just wanted to show pure gratitude, and nothing else. I cant ignore the fact that, even though I am filled with gratitude to the point that I let it overflow and fill up this envelope, I also see a glimmer of hope in that mixture, a hope that in receiving this praise that you would be compelled to keep on doing what you do so fantastically well.

I am writing to thank you for making custard pies in such a way that goes so far as to make me enjoy life more not only whenever I am in the presence of one, but because I have been so blessed to encounter one. Even further, just the thought of one of your pies stirs excitement within me. With other things I enjoy, of which there are many baked goods, I am almost left disappointed by the last bite, not just because it was good and I wanted more, but because perhaps it was only good enough while it was being eaten, or chewed. With your pies, I taste every aspect of the process around their existence, so much so that even now, after being separated from them for more than half a year, I can still taste the exquisite goodness through my memory of them, and my anticipation of encounters to come. I will describe to you briefly how great your pies really are through a scenario summarising an encounter with them:

I would make the decision to get a custard pie. It would take much too long to include what might bring such a decision about. This would make me excited, and I would share this with others by asking around who would like one. This often involved the sharing of past Pasadena Bakery custard pie stories with fellow pie lovers, or if there were a pie virgin in the room, a passionate description of every aspect of the pie would follow. This description would cover the intense creaminess of the custard, without it being too heavy or too light, the way that you feel perfectly satisfied after one pie, and are not exactly sure why. The way the cinnamon on top is so casually resting there, as if it didn’t matter where it was, but in truth nothing matters much more then than that cinnamon being present, there, on the precious custard filling of that very pie. The way that the crust of the pie crumbles without being crumbly, the way that it tastes so good that it doesn’t matter if your second to last bite accidentally takes all the custard, because the crust is incredible even on its own. I could go on forever. But what makes them so great would not be covered, because it exists not only in the pies themselves.

Back to the scenario: The excitement generated would often involve people being brought together. A pie community would form. There has even been situations of group bike rides with the sole purpose of crossing the city to get to the Pasadena Bakery. Or even if, as I often would, offer to help a friend of mine get over to Point Chev, a large part of this decision-come act of kindness being that I would be near to your bakery. From that instance alone, there is not only the good of the favour in driving my friend, but also the pie for myself and the feeling I have done a favour at the same time. But it does not stop there. I would never buy just one pie, always two, often more, as I would want someone else to share in the experience. The price of each pie, no different to regular pricing at other bakeries that come nowhere near to producing the magic that you do, constantly blows my mind. Please don’t raise the price of the pies, you are incredible. Even if the pies had sold out, the fleeting disappointment would give way to a certain gladness or satisfaction that at least every pie would be experienced by another person, and in the same motion I would catch sight of the next moment when a pie and me and everything I describe here might recycle itself, I would see the whole cycle of life with pies, and my own position in that cycle which I am so grateful for.

The quality of the pies is so high that I would not see it adequate to eat it just anywhere, I would need to find the right place for that time, and I would not mind waiting, because even the anticipation of the pie-to-come would bring with it a most rapturous joy. Often having an extra pie in possession would mean I would be compelled to deliver it to someone I care about, or rather to draw someone in to meeting me over a pie, someone I might not see otherwise. Eating one of your pies, each bite tastes not only of its ingredients which you so masterfully assembled and gifted to the earth, but also of this whole collection of events, sensations, relationships, places, memories and anticipations that are attached to it and somehow make up its filling. But we also know that these could just as well be found in the taste of the crust alone, as long as we acknowledge that that piece of crust contains within it the essence of the whole thing, the whole pie, but also the whole pie-cycle that you give motion to.

Please continue to make your custard pies, they do a lot more than just sell themselves, and I am so very gracious that you have provided me and so many others with the blessing and chain of blessings that follow your pies and lead back to them. Bless the pies and the hands that made them.

Infinitely thankful,
andy<

-eyes>closing>in>sequence/-people>slipping>through>doors-what>can>I>do>from>this>lane/-only>as>long>as>I>can>remember//
;
Pulled away from the curb on my bicycle, having just written down those words which for various and probably uninteresting reasons (unless you think of dreams as visions) were accumulating and repeating themselves endlessly and involuntarily in my thoughts ever since the film ended. I was afraid that they would continue to do so and that the collection would be too much for me. Now, I thought, that they were written away, I am free to forget them, putting an end to the ridiculous, overwhelming collection of simple, immaterial signs. Once more the list recited itself, and as it did I noticed another line I had not noted down on the curbside, (and forgive me for what a crappy phrase it is, at least appreciate my honesty in admitting it here, remember I did not choose these words)
-keep>on>pedalling//
And so my memory had failed me. How do all those great writers do it? How do they record in such a manner that it recreates those fleeting moments when it is as if you have discovered in time and thought, a distinct melody, but one which you know in its entirety just by looking at it- you don't require any more time than that instant in which you possess the tune in its whole form, like you might an object in your hand. How do they reproduce in such a likeness that we can feel an affinity with what is written, or rather what is described? Not so much that they describe a particular experience of your own, more just that it is as if they have been able to transcribe (as if on paper, a musical score) one of those melodies, or tunes. But I worry that perhaps these writers (or even things without such distinct authors, like a great film you watch before you know anything at all about it) are not accurate or honest records at all. As disheartening as it is to imagine it, they could just be complete fabrications. What is even scarier is twofold:
1-that this makes sense, as even if a musical score is transcribed accurately from an improvised live performance, there is always something lost when the piece is re-performed, when the instruments are played and the score recited. It could never be the same song even if it is the same melody.
2-Let's say that these fabricated scores are the ones we admire and even idealise (an act to which, I confess, am guilty). Maybe this even changes what we listen for in the future, meaning that the electric speakers through which we play the melodies we admire drown out the most natural of songs.