An ode to peaches
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This week we continue to lean into summer themes and give thanks for peaches.
Trigger warning: this post references 9/11.
I grew up picking with the seasons. Strawberries. Raspberries. Cherries. Blueberries. Peaches.
I have fond memories of picking fresh peaches with my dad. There was a place we used to go a little ways out of town near the river. We would usually eat a few in the orchard — warm in the afternoon sun — and bring home a full box.
Looking back, I didn’t fully appreciate how much of a treat this was.
I would usually eat one or two on my cold cereal for breakfast and then cut up two or three and have in a bowl with a little milk in the afternoon as a snack. They were freestone peaches, meaning that they just fell off the pit. They were so tasty and juicy.
The last time my dad and I picked peaches together was the afternoon of 9/11. I still remember it like it was yesterday. My brother called that morning, said to turn on the TV. Watching the news unfold, shocked and stunned. Finally going into to work, only to have our office building — the tallest in town — shut down by the FBI a few hours later. Helicopters overhead. With nowhere to go, I went to see my parents. When my dad got home that day, we decided to go see if we could get some more peaches. We didn’t know what else to do.
We drove for a while.
It was a sunny afternoon, probably in the 70s. We found an orchard with a sign out and we pulled in. As we got out of our car, the farmer, dressed in denim overalls, came to greet us. We talked for a while. He shared that his wife was a flight attendant, grounded that day somewhere back east. He was a big man and he seemed scared. He wasn’t sure when or if she would get home.
Together, we tried to make sense of what had happened that day in New York and Pennsylvania and find solace in an orchard.
Before the pandemic, when I used to work downtown, I would often walk to the farmers’ market on Wednesdays in the summer and eagerly await the arrival of the fresh peaches. Every once in a while I would treat myself and buy a few to bring home. More often, I would just savor the slivers they handed out as samples. (Peaches at the farmers’ market cost a good bit more than they did when we used to u-pick by the pound.)
I have wanted to pick peaches again for so many years. The ones at the grocery store simply don’t compare.
This year, I found a place. I haven’t been able to go yet but my wife and mom did and I’m so grateful.
The peaches taste like my childhood. Sweet. Juicy. Delicious.
We shared a half dozen with some friends visiting from out of town. Fresh fruit is best when it’s shared with those we love.
This weekend, I am wishing you the simple joy of a juicy, ripe peach.
And, if you’ve never had the opportunity to u-pick fresh fruit, I would heartily encourage you to search out a farm near you. I’m biased, but I think you’ll enjoy it. :) Both the experience and the fruits of your labor.
Be well,
-Bryce
We are coming to the end our summer and I am enjoying a nice ripe nectarine while reading this (because your thumbnail made me hungry!)
Best homage to peaches since the Presidents of the United States of America 1996 hit single!