Levitating Cherry Pie with Ice Cream
I made this Cherry Pie using the recipe on the back of the Twin Peaks DVD. I made it four times to make it perfect. This was the last attempt. It was tasty as well.
We open on a silent kitchen, heavy with afternoon shadows. There’s a chair in the back—empty. Lonely. And right there in the center of it all, suspended in the stillness of some otherworldly force, floats a piece of cherry pie. Not just any pie… this one’s bleeding with red. Deep red. Like a memory that won’t go away.
Above the pie, there’s a scoop of ice cream. Vanilla, presumably. But it’s hovering—it’s not on the pie, it’s not falling, it’s just… there. Watching. Waiting. It knows something you don’t.
The plate floats too—quietly, obediently—like it’s part of some ritual. And everything is lit with this harsh, divine light, like a single bulb in a room where time doesn’t work properly. There’s fabric below—blue, rich, and possibly infinite. It might be a tablecloth… or it might be the sky. Who knows.
This isn’t dessert. This is a message. Something has gone terribly right—or terribly wrong. Right, probably, because this was the fourth attempt. And the only witnesses are a chair, a pie, and the silence between them.
I made this Cherry Pie using the recipe on the back of the Twin Peaks DVD. I made it four times to make it perfect. This was the last attempt. It was tasty as well.
We open on a silent kitchen, heavy with afternoon shadows. There’s a chair in the back—empty. Lonely. And right there in the center of it all, suspended in the stillness of some otherworldly force, floats a piece of cherry pie. Not just any pie… this one’s bleeding with red. Deep red. Like a memory that won’t go away.
Above the pie, there’s a scoop of ice cream. Vanilla, presumably. But it’s hovering—it’s not on the pie, it’s not falling, it’s just… there. Watching. Waiting. It knows something you don’t.
The plate floats too—quietly, obediently—like it’s part of some ritual. And everything is lit with this harsh, divine light, like a single bulb in a room where time doesn’t work properly. There’s fabric below—blue, rich, and possibly infinite. It might be a tablecloth… or it might be the sky. Who knows.
This isn’t dessert. This is a message. Something has gone terribly right—or terribly wrong. Right, probably, because this was the fourth attempt. And the only witnesses are a chair, a pie, and the silence between them.