Little by little, I’ve been leaving my hobbies to the side. I used to write everyday, now I have pockets of time in which I don’t write. I can’t motivate. What I have been doing us watching old television shows and going through bouts of nostalgia.  So, here I’m doing a bit on nostalgia, writing, and pie.

There’s something about autumn that just makes everything feel a bit more real. The air gets crisper, the colors get bolder, and the sense of urgency among squirrels and chipmunks increases as if they’ve all signed up for some sort of Forest Nutathon 5000. But while everyone else is waxing poetic about foliage and scarves, I have a confession to make: my heart belongs to autumn not just for its visual splendor, but for the abundance of pie.

Oh yes, pie—nature’s greatest invention. Sure, I love the gold and crimson tapestry of leaves as much as the next person, but you know what really catches my eye? A slice of warm, gooey apple pie with a crumbly topping that crunches ever so delicately with each bite. And let’s not even start on cherry pie. The way that ruby-red filling oozes with tart sweetness, it’s as if the cherries are determined to remind us that decadence doesn’t need to be complicated. And speaking of crumbs, just yesterday I stumbled upon a peach-blueberry crumb pie that was so divine it made me pause mid-bite and consider writing an ode to it. Or maybe a sonnet. It was that good.

One bite of that pie and I was instantly transported to the bizarre world of  Twin Peaks, a place where pie isn’t just a dessert—it’s practically a philosophy. The kind of place where you sip coffee that’s “black as midnight on a moonless night” and savor a “damn fine” slice of cherry pie while trying to figure out who on earth thought those weirdly ominous opening credits were a good idea. I mean, I adore the show, but let’s be honest: the lumber mill scenes in the intro could put even the most die-hard autumn-lover to sleep. And yet, it’s so hypnotic that you keep watching, drawn into its dreary, movie-like world where nothing makes sense, but the pie always does.

It’s not just the pie, though. Autumn has a way of making everything feel more deliberate. Even the squirrels are up to something grander than themselves. I’m watching them from my window now, little furry bundles of sheer determination, hoarding enough acorns to last them through the next two winters, it seems. They’re like tiny accountants, logging away every nut with a sense of purpose that’s admirable, if not mildly obsessive.

And then there are the chipmunks, darting about like over-caffeinated couriers, cheeks puffed out with so much loot that you wonder if they’ve set up some kind of nut cartel. The whole scene is almost cartoonish in its fervor, as if someone cranked up the absurdity dial just to see how far it could go. But I can’t blame them; after all, I’ve been stockpiling pies with almost the same zeal. There’s something about fall that makes you want to gather the good stuff, to feast on all the richness the season has to offer before the bleak, stripped-down minimalism of winter sets in.

So, while everyone else is picking pumpkins or raking leaves, I’ll be over here, savoring another slice of that peach-blueberry crumb pie, rewatching Twin Peaks, and contemplating life’s greatest mysteries: like why the show ever decided to open with a close-up of a saw blade, or why there’s always room for just one more slice of pie.

Because in the end, autumn is about savoring the things that bring you joy, whether it’s the beauty of falling leaves, the cozy warmth of baked goodness, or even the oddly soothing weirdness of a cult TV show from the ‘90s. And right now, that means pie. Lots and lots of pie. So, go ahead—put on your best flannel, pour yourself some coffee, and join me in a little slice of fall heaven. Because as the saying goes: “You can’t have too much of a good thing.” Especially when that thing is pie.