On Sunday, I willingly bought a slice of apple pie from a bakery. The crust was made of globular, dusty crumbles, a thick sheath to protect the apple underneath. It tasted good.
In Dumaguete, I also asked for a special order of 20 cookies (pictured above). I paid 13 pesos each for them. They are literally the most amazing cookies I have ever eaten, and big reason is because they are thick, yielding, and, most importantly, not too sweet. Repeat: unlike American sweets, the cookies here are not sweet. These cookies, then, are the synergy of the American form and the Asian sensibility. I have them in a plastic bag in a box in my unplugged fridge, as to keep the oxygen from poisoning them to staleness. Everyday, I have a ritual where I untie the bag, pick one out of the cascading, disorganized shelves, and carefully bite off manageable hunks and chew them in my mouth, making sure to silently remark at how perfectly firm they are, and how the almond or dough or oatmeal (yea, definitely oatmeal) just works as a flavor.
I don't know what's going to happen when I finish the box, but I'm scared. Unless I fly back to Dumaguete, I'm never going to eat these cookies ever again. How much more special does that make every bite? It's pretty much immeasurable.
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