Pie. Raspberry Pie. Cooling just next to the oven on a wire rack. The sweet, tart fragrance fills the kitchen, making my mouth water. It’s my Grammy’s pie. She always makes it for my mom’s birthday. Her log cabin up in the colds of Canada is one of my favorite places in the world, and the smell of raspberry pie can instantly bring me back there. But I’m not there now. I’m standing outside a bakery somewhere far from her log cabin, an insane grin plastered over my face at the smell of raspberry pie.