peaches



summer






just when is this glorious time to begin, that time to determinately read infinite jest? memo day? in the rain? me thinks it starts when you go and buy a badminton set, or when you see the girls of summer strutting alberta street, yes, or when you breath the scent of peaches, but you think it's too early. the aroma buffets your nose and there they are. dark, glowing lusciously, peach fuzzy in a basket right next to the last of the mandarin pixies. peaches this early in portland are tricky. this is only june first, so you reach, fingers poised like you might for a baseball, and you approach ever so gently, to feel if there is give to this orb, if scent, touch and feel correspond with what a ripe peach ought to pitch in your game. and the produce girl cuts you a slice, juice spurting the cleft, she mentions they’re californian, lodi likely. and yes, the fragrance is true, the nub fleshy and soft, and you blush as the girl tenders closely to help you tag a pound and a half.
so, let’s say you found your peaches, aromatic and ripe, how will you have them? with cream, georgia stile? out of hand, from the tree? the instant you’re out of the store?






by the time i got home i had three peaches left. i thought them as desert, a melange of savory sweet. quartered and brushed with a vinaigrette of green olive oil, champagne vinegar and cilantro. and a wee bit of grey salt.