Ah me, I have been daydreaming about peaches. Big old juicy dripping down your chin peaches.
Like the ones that a majority of Berglund women went to pick sometime back in the 70's. I was a newly displaced housewife. It was summer. And Mom suggested that we get some ripe peaches. She had the number of a little old lady who lived further down the valley on a gently aging orchard.
She called her and yes the peaches were ripe come on out and pick them. So we loaded up and went there and picked about a bushel of absolutely dead ripe improved Elberta peaches.
I can't remember exactly what we did with them but eating them was definitely on the agenda. I am certain that this particular pick was what has fueled Ellen's life long love of fresh peach cobbler.
With all of that in mind I went searching locally. The first place I looked was at the fruit stand out on Hwy 42. The peaches were small and hard as rocks. Lots of small ripe looking extremely firm peach like rocks.
Next I looked at McStore in town and they had peaches. They were small but looked much riper than the other ones. I brought them home and let them ripen up a bit more for a couple of days. I didn't let them get to the fruit fly stage.
I decided to cut them and sugar them. I did not even peel them. I cut them in half along the seam and the pits were very stubbornly attached to the interior even when they were split in half. Come out darned peach pit! It took me a while to very carefully avoid cutting my palm to get them winkled out of there. I then sliced them up and sprinkled on some sugar with a bit of cinnamon.
Well, they were edible but not as nearly as the memory of those lovely summer warmed improved Elberta perches. Drool.
The only other truly reliable source for such lovely fruit is by Harry and David, and I just might do that next time I need a peach fix.
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