Apologies for the earlier and incomplete reference to a “mystical experience” involving a peach pie. Hyperbole may be my second name, but in this one instance, it was perfectly warranted. The story cannot go untold, for it sets the tone for the way my life unfolds whenever I step foot in Ireland–which happened again today. But I will get to that momentarily.

If my memory was jogged correctly, it was early August–well past the nadir of local strawberry season when thoughts like mine skip raspberries completely and fixate on the forthcoming plump and juicy peach. When it comes to cravings, fresh peaches are just the tip of the iceberg. Peach preserves on homemade bread become the jewel of the jelly kingdom, even while strawberries remain royal, yet seated in reverence next to that heavenly bowl of whipped cream.

By mid-August, thoughts turn from mere peach, to peach pie.

There is just one problem. I couldn’t make a peach pie if my life depended on it. So every year, I force myself to forgo the hankering and practice all forms of mental gymnastics just to purge the obsession.

This time, it didn’t work. In fact, it just got worse. For weeks, I thought about peach pie several times a day–roughly the same number of times most men think about Kate Upton–until one Sunday, I jumped in my car and took the Queensway Eastbound for no particular reason. No sooner did I note this when I witnessed my Versa taking a left turn exit onto Wellington St. and driving itself into a nearby parking lot. Stunned, I tried to find a quick escape out of GenX Yuppie Land only to drive into Parma Ravioli–a shop I have not set foot in for over a decade. I turned off the ignition, stared straight ahead and like a zombie, I proceeded to walk through the front door.

I noted absentmindedly the intimidatingly long line up of people purchasing pies. Instead, I averted my gaze to the savoury section. As I perused the pasta and the confusing array of tubed anchovy paste, my reverie was broken by a stranger handing me a pie. “This is for you”, he said.

I stared, uncharacteristically speechless at the baked dough sitting in the palms of my hands. “Why?”, I asked. “Because I have two and I only need one.” And just like that, he vanished.

The whole shop stared in silence. After several seconds, someone piped up and yelled: “What kind?”

“Peach”, replied the baker behind the counter.