Apple pie. Kaylee's craving for strawberries wasn't anything compared to Malcolm Reynold's similar longing for apple pie. Unlike Kaylee, he kept his desire to himself. It wasn't captain like to moon over food. Or so he told himself.

It was just any apple pie though, mind you, but a special one that his Ma used to make for Sunday dinner when the apples dropped from the trees in the grove down by the creek. She would bake it on Saturday mornings and leave it on the kitchen window sill to cool. The smell of the fresh baked pie would envelope the surrounding yard and if the wind was just right it would drift as far as the stables resulting in a unique combination of dust, sweat, and horse topped off by the spices of the apple pie.

Mal would have to be very careful when he passed that window sill on the way back into house. He learned the hard way that the pie wasn't to be touched. More than one time his Ma's hand had landed on his backside when he dared to stick a finger in pie as it sat mocking him as he went into the kitchen. He finally learned to steel himself as he passed it by and wait for it to appear with appropriate ceremony at the end of the meal.

Sundays would stretch forever as Mal waited . The Shepard's sermons were torture as he droned on and on. Mal would dance around as his Ma talked to the neighbors seemingly forever after the service. Finally it was back home, bolt down dinner and wait for the pie to appear. Then despite his efforts to savor every bite the pie it disappeared in record time every Sunday.

Despite devouring the pie as fast as he could the cinnamon would tickle his nose, the sweetness of the sugar would hit his tongue, followed by the tart firmness of the apples themselves. Then the crust would dissolve, blending the flavors perfectly in his mouth. Heaven in a crust was what he called it.

Those days were over now, with apples rare and apple pie nonexistent in the Black, but he held the memory close. Some times Inara would glide by wearing some sort of apply, s