I went to a farmers market today, down by the water. A beautiful day, and I was hunting some fruit and vegetables. I bought this beautiful, huge peach and left hopeful, and hungry at the thought of this lavish, fresh, succulent piece of heaven. *A fresh peach, it brought back memories of when I was about 6 years old, when we had several fruit trees in the backyard. Us kids used to gorge ourselves on the peaches, plums, apricots, and oranges. My mom made jams and pies. Um, this beautiful peach I couldn’t wait, even to get it back and wash it. I just figured, well, a few tree germs, I can handle. A good healthy peach, with all the fuzz. Fresh fuzz. Natural fuzz. I turned the peach over and over in my hands. I rubbed my fingers over the peach, feeling the fuzz, trying to rub it off. Thinking of youth, playing, fresh fruit, cobblers, jams, fresh bread.
I bit into the peach.
It was the perfect peach, *until I tasted it. I really enjoyed contemplating the peach much more than the actual taste, flavor and texture of the peach itself. In a way, I regret eating the peach. It wasn’t very sweet. It was ripe but didn’t have a particularly strong peachy...
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