As I took the first bite, I considered what it would be like to sell all my belongings and live inside this pie. I could beg on the street for spare change and sleep in a shelter made of scotch tape and Marie Callender’s Pot Pie Empties.
The texture of the individual, perfectly cooked bits – bits that actually tasted like the vegetables they resembled – caught me off guard. I fell into eternity’s arms as I punched through the golden, buttery crust again and again. The chicken was moist and tender. A creamy sauce made of real parmesan cheese covered everything without drowning anything.
I blinked and realized that as I was daydreaming that I had been shoveling it into my gaping maw in a gastronomical orgy and had somehow already swallowed half the pie.
As the remaining amount dwindled I wondered what kind of ugly, shameful, Less Than Zero lengths I would go to to get one more bite.
Then it was gone.