(no subject)

I bought a peach today. 

This may not seem like an interesting event, but for me it is.  I love peaches.  I love them more than the most perfect pear, more than cold crisp watermelon, more than a round hard little apple containing the essence of autumn; more than Clementines that are velvet on the lips and bursting juice on the tongue, more than strawberries and warm chocolate sauce (or a chocolate shell), more than the tiny deliciousnesses of champagne grapes.  More than a banana when I'm craving potassium.  Peaches are what I think of when I read that passage about the fruit in Aslan's country, in The Last Battle.  Lewis didn't list peaches; I don't know if he ever tasted one. 

The trouble is, about ten years back my mouth started itching when I ate stonefruit.  Most of it was no great loss; I don't like cherries and plums I can take or leave.  But peaches, oh... 

I can eat them baked, and do.  I can eat them canned; commercially this is dull, while my mother's are excellent but rare.  But raw was no good. 

Except, this weekend I tried a slice from the peach my mother was cutting up.  I always do that when I get the chance, in hopes that my allergy has gone away.  Don't laugh; I've lost some of the allergies I had as a child, and my allergy to the family dog dies down if I'm around her often enough. 

This time, my mouth didn't itch.  It was only a small slice, but still. 

So I bought one, to ripen.  To try. 

I can just imagine it.  Peeling it first; I hate the skins.  If I want fuzz against my lips, I'll kiss my cats.  Did you know, by the way, that if you boil a peach for about a minute, in water that's at a rolling boil, the skin will slip right off?  I don't think it works for cling peaches, but I used to help my mother can them, and the peeling was the easiest bit. 

Forget slicing; I'd stand leaning over the sink and lift that slippery, heavy sphere to my lips.  Bite.  Sweet, sweet perfumed juice, the slide of the first tender morsel over my tongue, the crush of it against my palate; the sheer lusciousness of the flavor. 

I'm salivating just thinking about it. 

Oh, I'll be careful, this time.  I'll try two slices, maybe, and see if anything happens before I eat the rest.  If I do. 

But I can hardly wait. 

Yum. 

(no subject)

I bought a peach today. 

This may not seem like an interesting event, but for me it is.  I love peaches.  I love them more than the most perfect pear, more than cold crisp watermelon, more than a round hard little apple containing the essence of autumn; more than Clementines that are velvet on the lips and bursting juice on the tongue, more than strawberries and warm chocolate sauce (or a chocolate shell), more than the tiny deliciousnesses of champagne grapes.  More than a banana when I'm craving potassium.  Peaches are what I think of when I read that passage about the fruit in Aslan's country, in The Last Battle.  Lewis didn't list peaches; I don't know if he ever tasted one. 

The trouble is, about ten years back my mouth started itching when I ate stonefruit.  Most of it was no great loss; I don't like cherries and plums I can take or leave.  But peaches, oh... 

I can eat them baked, and do.  I can eat them canned; commercially this is dull, while my mother's are excellent but rare.  But raw was no good. 

Except, this weekend I tried a slice from the peach my mother was cutting up.  I always do that when I get the chance, in hopes that my allergy has gone away.  Don't laugh; I've lost some of the allergies I had as a child, and my allergy to the family dog dies down if I'm around her often enough. 

This time, my mouth didn't itch.  It was only a small slice, but still. 

So I bought one, to ripen.  To try. 

I can just imagine it.  Peeling it first; I hate the skins.  If I want fuzz against my lips, I'll kiss my cats.  Did you know, by the way, that if you boil a peach for about a minute, in water that's at a rolling boil, the skin will slip right off?  I don't think it works for cling peaches, but I used to help my mother can them, and the peeling was the easiest bit. 

Forget slicing; I'd stand leaning over the sink and lift that slippery, heavy sphere to my lips.  Bite.  Sweet, sweet perfumed juice, the slide of the first tender morsel over my tongue, the crush of it against my palate; the sheer lusciousness of the flavor. 

I'm salivating just thinking about it. 

Oh, I'll be careful, this time.  I'll try two slices, maybe, and see if anything happens before I eat the rest.  If I do. 

But I can hardly wait. 

Yum.