Millions of Peaches

I think these farmers are up to something.  On little plastic plates piled high for grubby hands were the sweetest, most perfect representation of peachy pleasure I’d encountered all summer.  I’d been waiting for peach season for weeks and rumors that the rainy Spring was great for stone fruit was fueling desire.

At home with the sweet taste of peach still fresh in my mind  I pealed my bounty with a paring knife while juice collected in my palm and ran down my wrist.  I fumbled with the glistening skinless orbs as they slid around my cutting board hanging on to stubborn pits.

I popped a slice in my mouth and …

This wasn’t the peach I sampled at all.    Tart, a little unyielding and less than flavorful.  A slice from another confirmed my suspicion.  These peaches were good, sure, but they weren’t the massively sweet specimens I’d hoped for and sampled back at the market.

That’s alright though I’ll hold no grudge.   A little booze can make a perspective mate more attractive so I’ll slather these babies in a healthy splash of bourbon and sugar and let things macerate a while.  I’ll top them with a sweet drop biscuit dough and bake them till they’ve reduced to a sweet and sticky filling.  I’ll make a decent peach cobbler with a less than perfect peach.