The Bolsheviks

´╗┐Apple Pie
Aron Mozes Hour 6/Olson March 1,2010
There is something about apple pies that fascinates me. Is it the crust? or maybe the sweet apples?   But maybe it's the feeling I get when I take a bite of an American apple pie that reminds me of the distant home.
When I ate my first American apple pie I felt piercing pain of home sickness as I took my first bite. But after the home sickness had disappeared the apple pie was starting to taste better in my mouth. The new and strange yet wonderful crispy crust was melting in my mouth. The fresh and very sweet apples in a foreign sauce were crunching under my teeth. Somehow it seemed better than the one I had eaten 48 hours earlier in my Grandfathers shiny white house. As i thought of that beautiful house on the shores of a crystal clear lake, a tear sprung to my eye. I have to be strong I told myself and swalloed the lump that was gathering in my throat. It was a guilty feeling that gnawed at me, but secretly I cherished that delecious apple pie.
The Hungarian apple pie was and still is one of my favorite meals even today. It is small and about two inches by two inches in the shape of a square. There is a powdered sugar on top of it and is filles with apples and raisins. There is no clear apple sauce in the apples. Yet somehow this new foreign apple pie had triumphed over it. Many changes were occurring in my life at that time and strange as it sounds it provided some small sort of relief to a three year old in a vast and different place.
As I left the quiet bakery, a world of new and interesting images appeared all around me. A gigantic car stopped in front of me and two people with very different skin color strode past me. As I wiped the cream off of the corner of my mouth from the new apple pie. It represented the distant future that lay ahead of me in my newest adventure, fitting in America. As i thought of the old apple pie it seemed it was now in the past, but yet the feeling of home sickness...