Sublime

I was twenty-six years old before I ever tasted a real peach. Such wild fierce beauty as is found on my island home is enjoyed at a price, part of which is having to eat produce that was picked well before its prime in a field in some other corner of the continent and has been entombed in a freight container for a month (wild blueberries and lobster go a long, long way toward offsetting this deprivation). The "peaches" of my youth were as hard as baseballs and odorless if they were unprocessed, or slimy and slick if they were tinned.

A real southern peach-- whose surface temperature has never slipped below 80 degrees, whose soft skins sloughs away at the first nuzzle of your lips, whose flesh can be ploughed under with the tip of your tongue, and whose scarlett pit, upon first glimpse, causes your mouth to pucker involuntarily in anticipation of sucking pulp and nectar from every dimple-- that is an experience that I probably couldn't have fully appreciated before I was twenty-six.

A little seasoning enhances everything.


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