Perfect Peach Pie

I have one quest in life: to find the perfect peach pie.  One hot summer afternoon, a bite into a perfectly ripe cool peach brought me delicious moments of pure bliss.  Unforgettable.

When peaches are freshly plucked from a lush tree they bring your sense of taste and smell to rare peaks of pleasure.  It has to be hot dry weather, your tongue longing for a refreshing variation, and by some mysterious and unexpected good fortune, the peach is cool in your hand. The fragrance of the peach awakens a sense of possibility; the youthful fun of summer and memories of peaceful, insouciant dawdles on a back porch swing.

Granted, there are rivals for the coveted place of ultimate summer fruit or berry.  I love the sense of accomplishment from holding between pricked fingers, a plump sweet blackberry won from sharp selfish bushes, while on tiptoe teetering on the edge of a river.  Or, ruby raspberries examined for bugs in Grandma's backyard.  Fulfilled longing for a delicious summer berry is even better if there is a little risk involved.  Or, juicy oranges, even the scent of strawberries...
But above all others, this one peach has the power to stop time.  Pure.  Simple.

And while a badly made pie crust (mine) can bring me terrible disappointment, the treasure of a homemade pie (someone else's), enticing me by smell before I know of its existence with sweet sticky juices, brightens my mood every time.  So, perfect peach + perfect pie crust  =  perfection worth searching a lifetime for. 
Side question:  can pie be truly amazing independent of time and place, or does a sip from a cold glass of lemonade on a lazy summer afternoon, pre-nap round off the notion of perfection. Another question: Do I enjoy the search more than the pie?  If I did find it, that would end my quest, and that would be boring.  Whenever and wherever I see peach pie I must try a piece.  It is quite rare and must be experienced regardless of look or location.  Imagine the cruel pleasure of judging a peach pie contest, and having to chose just one!

I practice my daydreaming skills so that when this perfect melody of flavours and smells lingers,  I can begin an extended appreciation for the moment, and end with a light reve delicieux.  I allow and encourage myself to have between one and three short daydreams per day, dependent on environmental factors (any less would be inhumane, and any more could lead to complete detachment from reality).  These luscious moments range from the ridiculous to the sublime.  The more detail the better, with requisite rambles and twists.  I try not to re-run them, I like to keep my irrational whimsies fresh.

So, I've been trying to coax the boys into manufacturing a creative retreat for the drearier moments of life when they are stuck where they are, like stuck on a long car ride, pinned in between a crying younger sister and a sweaty, stinky teenage cousin.  

First of all, they look at me like I'm crazy, and I inwardly cringe because I suspect they are right.  But I don't give up, because an imagination can be a tool, or a reprieve, or sometimes the only syringe fast and legal.

Their minds are wired for logic, facts, rules and regulation; so it doesn't come easy.  We have some good starts:
Ben's daydream:  to rent a fancy hotel room away from everyone else with room service so he wouldn't have to leave his Mac.
Davis' daydream:  for puppies to lick his face all day long.

Sounds good to me.  We are still working on uncomplicated life quests;  life can bring random and fierce struggles, so balance it out with an appreciation for a "simple thing done well,"  as my husband would say.