A warm sun slides slowly through a yellowing sky, with a sultry breeze out of the south softly rustling the leaves of the backyard peach tree. Perhaps it is the almost imperceptible sway of the summer eve's air currents that give the gentle nudge that brings the perfectly ripen fruit to the ground. Maybe it is that mystical moment when the peach has drawn up its last droplet of moisture through the roots during the hot afternoon and then adds that final drop of sugar to its yellow flesh - perhaps that is the moment when the balance tips in favor of gravity. For whatever reasons beyond mortal predictions and in a moment incalculable by man's mind; but at the right moment, the peach tree lets go of its well flavored bounty and with a soft and subtle plop, fallen fruit is to be found laying at the root for all comers.
Commercial and industrious growers can not abide the single and individual ripening of a peach to perfection, but must out of necessity send the workers into the grove to pick and pack all that is available in an instant. But I, not constrained by commerce, can wait for for the tree to give in its own season. And so it was in the first week of June, when some spoiled peaches begin to fall on their own accord, while others hang tight, day by day glowing evermore tempting in their orange-yellow skin streaked and speckled in sanguine accents.
And when I intuitively hear the "thump" of a naturally ripened peach falling to the ground and I sense within my harvester's soul that the first really good and sensitive peach of the season has alighted upon the grass; I spring from within the house, telling the wife; "They are ready! And they are here now!" She grabs a colander (which quickly proves insufficient for holding the harvest) and then finds a bucket, while I strut up the rungs of a rickety old ladder that corporate Safety Managers would have burned long ago. Many of the fine peaches I can shake loose from their branches with my hands, while others are plucked from on high using wild gyrations with the staff of a broken garden hoe in one hand (substituting for a pruning hook) as I am balanced upon my ladder like a harpooner in the bow of a whaling boat. From ground level I am instructed, "Oh! Can you see those one over there? See if you can knock them loose." We make quick work of the peach tree as the sun hangs above the summer horizon beaming golden rays upon the now depleted branches.
The really good, unblemished and juicy specimens, still warm from the ambient temperature, are consumed on the spot on the back lawn. With unparalleled pleasure, the sweet juice runs from the corner of our mouths as we gather about 4 gallons of peaches. A better than average year for our tree. Into the kitchen for processing we go, where some are cut into pieces for pie and cobbler later on, and others are placed in a brown paper bag to ripen a bit more, and yet a few more morsels are sliced away from the pit and consumed there in the kitchen.
Summer has begun. And in a good way.
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| Sue Slices & Dices Fresh Peaches From the Backyard Tree Rite of Early Summer |
