Found an old recipe book in the ruins of the bakery on Elm Street. Spent the afternoon trying to remember how to measure flour without proper cups. The scent of cinnamon almost made me forget the stench outside. Almost.

We used to gather for Sunday dinners, arguing over politics while passing potatoes. Now we huddle over canned beans, and the only argument is whether to risk the supermarket for tomato sauce.

Funny what the end of the world teaches you - I'd trade every weapon in my arsenal for one more taste of my grandmother's apple pie. And no, that's not a euphemism, you deviants. Though if you know where to find fresh apples, I might make an exception.

What's the one food you'd risk everything for?