I had my first fresh, picked from a tree, peach last summer after years of casual indifference and naive reluctance. I still don’t care much for the coarse, fuzzy flesh, but underneath was a tastebud changing revelation. It was as if I was tasting the fruit for the first time, as it was intended to be, tearing into the flesh and juice with a smile half a mile wide.
There is nothing quite like the juicy slop, that delicate liberating feeling of never eating canned peaches in sugar water again.
I’m concocting a recipe for peach-ginger ice cream, or something like along those lines once the harvest arrives in late summer. If possible, the peach is criminally underappreciated — not unlike the pear.