A frivolous post on the joys of the peach: a month or so ago, a dinner guest brought a flat of peaches as Hostess Gift. For someone who doesn’t even like wine, this was very exciting. But everything in our house from fruit to bread to Parmesan cheese in the refrigerator gets infected by the muffa, mold but insidious, perfidious, and ubiquitous. Hairy, too. It breaks my heart to have perfectly good food go to rot overnight and into the compost. I feel responsible for it. And we really don’t have that much need for compost. So, this flat of peaches and I embarked on a most intimate relationship.
Every day, at least once, I would pick up each peach, carefully, lovingly, and inspect it all around. The least blemish or softness would send it to the front row. The others were fastidiously sorted into ranks: Safe, Soon, Tomorrow. Somehow, as if by sheer force of desire or perhaps Divine Intervention, not one went bad on me. The Man assisted by using several a couple of times for Company Dessert: Grilled Peaches with ButterRum Sauce à la Mode (It was his night to cook; he is a man; everything goes on the grill. Okay, not the ice cream.). I would have liked to have had a nice illustration here, but they no sooner hit the bowls as disappeared. You’ll just have to trust me.
After several weeks of daily hits of perfectly delicious ~freestone!~ peaches, they were finally gone. But then I found what I took to calling the Donut Peaches. Oh, these babies are fabulous. I do not take the concept nor existence of doughnuts lightly. But even aside from the shape (which I have recently learned gives them the accepted name of Saturnia Peaches), they are so sweet. The pits are flatish with little attachment to the greater volume of flesh, even when they try. Mama mia.