Yesterday, Dorothy and I went to Porter for peaches. Hey, an alliteration! Went to Porter for peaches to make peach pies. How's this: Went to Porter, post haste, for their pulchritudinous peaches to make the penultimately perfect peach pie. I'd better quit. Dorothy wants the peaches to make a cobbler for my birthday, Sunday.
Anyway, it was 110 degrees when we arrived at the peach stand. Fortunately, it was inside and air conditioned. They had everything that could possibly be made from peaches: Pies, candy, preserves, ice cream. We were tempted to buy it all, but we restrained ourselves and just bought fresh peaches and some fried pies. I noticed there were only two fried pies left in the case when we joined the queue at the cash register. I was tempted to be rude and elbow my way to the front of the line to assure that those pies would be ours, but being the civilized man that I am, I restrained myself. One of the pies sold. Well, I thought, Dorothy will just have to do without a pie. By the time we had worked our way to the register the other fried pie had been sold. I told the girl behind the counter, "Please tell me there's someone in back making more fried pies!" "As a matter of fact, yes, there is," she replied. "Oh, boy," I replied.
The fried pies were hot off the stove and we were halfway home before they were cool enough to eat.