Once, while living in Taiwan, I bought a peach the size of my head, for which I paid the rough equivalent of my first-born child. It was absolutely worth every penny. A flawless, juice-dripping, two-handed chunk of heaven.
I've spent three decades looking for another perfect peach.
Saturday, I got twenty pounds of them. Our lovely friend R. brought a 20-pound box of peaches that she'd purchased for a jaw-dropping fifty cents a pound. The fruit stand had to move them at any price, because fresh, perfectly-ripe peaches just don't have much of a shelf life.
Since Saturday, I've been trying to concoct some perfect raw recipe for my beautiful box of fruit.
Then, noticing the many teenagers living in my house walking about with sticky hands and arms, I remembered the point of raw food: Just eat the peaches. Maybe use a napkin. Or a bowl. But mostly, grab a piece of fruit and take a bite.
Sometimes I wonder about me.
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Perhaps I was confused because I grew up in the 70s, when bands named themselves after entrées. Meat Loaf. Humble Pie. The O'Jays. Temptations. Blue Oyster Cult. And the band named after an entire recipe: Peaches and Herb. (This is them, Shaking Their Grove Thing.)