Say goodbye until next year. The end of the peach season is here. I can tell because the texture changes and they are less juicy. The clarity of the flesh changes to milky, and worse, mealy if they’re cold-stored too long.
Yet, I am suckered every year when I see peaches on the produce stand late in the season. Can summer really be prolonged? Should it? It seems odd to eat peaches along side new fall apples.
Peaches are everything summer – hot days and warm nights. Their end signifies the passing of all that. Plums may bring up the rear for stone fruits but peaches recall summer loves, swimming rafts, careless beach reads, skinned knees, all sorts of real or imagined memories.
Strawberries are the fruit of first kisses but peaches are the fruit of summer romances. Strawberries emerge with their fresh promise of summer and for that, we love them. But peaches, they are heat and intensity, promises made.
By all means, freeze them, can them, turn them into good things in jars, but don’t expect them to be like the fresh ones. They just can’t. More than any other fruit, they can’t. They cannot be made to comply with our need to experience at our will. They make us wait. And we know about absence and the heart.
I could go away during strawberry, blueberry, pear, tomato, any season but not peach season (thankfully, some of them run together). I don’t know, next to my kid, they may be the greatest thing we have in BC.