After waiting for so long for the right moment to eat my first peach, the actual first peach came as a complete surprise, of course. I had walked by the peaches in my local supermarket for a couple weeks shunning the immature, inedible fruit. I'd feel them and they had about as much give as a Granny Smith. Which is not a good sign, no sir. A nice peach should not feel like a rock. But last night I decided that the supermarket peaches looked fine enough, and I loaded up my grocery bag and walked back to my house with a hope and a prayer.
I had just got back from the grocery store and was putting my little peaches into a bowl when I found myself biting into one. It’s like I was staring at a pretty girl across a party and then, suddenly, I was making out with her. Which is very nice, let me tell you – if not a bit shocking. I had picked up a peach and had found it terribly bruised – about one half of it was absolutely squishy. I knew if I left it for later it would just get nastier & nastier…. So I ran to the sink and, preparing for the worst, ate it.
It was gross. Kinda. But only the bruised bits – the rest was a good, solid peach. Nothing sublime. A bit on the tart side, but that doesn’t make for a crappy peach. The bruised parts were kinda like a sticky mass of peach puree. Which was a bit gross, but I can deal. I’ve eaten peaches so bad that they make me doubt that there is a loving god. This was not one of those peaches/
When I finished I could barely understand what had just happened. Heady, I wandered into my new room and felt a little off-balanced and could taste peach on my mouth for hours. The project has begun!
Peach count: 2