Okay. Nothing to see here. Move along, buddies. I mean, you may be coming here for news of my culinary exploits. But there's been NOTHING to speak of for a little white.
GOD. That last batch of peaches were such a disappointing, poor-tasting excuse for produce that I don't even want to talk about them right now, okay? I mean, I know I've signed up for a big dose of DUTY in starting a blog, a blog about a peach project - but, man, I never realized it would be like this. I never realized that I would feel obligated to register such disappointment, such a mediocre eating experience. It makes me want to switch my obsession to a fruit with less of a temperament - like oranges.
But wait, we need to recap. Rewind about a week when I bought a bunch of peaches from Whole Foods - one half the bunch white-flesh the other half yellow-flesh. The first peach I ate sucked. I thought I needed patience to wait for the peaches to ripen. What it actually turns out I needed was peaches that didn't suck.
I ate peach number twelve - the last of the batch - up on top of a mountain. Or, to be more precise, I was hiking up a mountain but my hiking companion got a bit tired and we retired to a rather accommodating rock and looked out across Boulder and talked about our feelings and then we ate peaches. Which is a very nice setting. I told this person about the peach blog, somehow trying to communicate my unholy love of peaches, and this person - who, before I get into this, is really lovely, eeally, and would be much liked by the frequent readers of this blog - this person, who I am interested in on a couple different human levels, burst out laughing at me and said that me having a peach blog was very revealing. And the she just grinned like she had the upper hand.
Damn straight it's revealing. It reveals that I have really good taste.
Anyway, the peach was mediocre. It was well into being ripe, the skin had a bit of give to it, and the flesh itself was finely soft and juicy. Which is the tactile side of a good peach. But the flesh itself had very little actual TASTE to it. It was more like a peach flavored water balloon than anything else. It was sweet, but undistinguished. It was peachy, but bland. I tossed the pit into the bushes and maybe me and this person gazed into each others eyes all profoundly, and maybe we just talked awkwardly around each other for a little while longer, before packing up our impromptu picnic and heading our separate ways.
Here's to the next batch, folks!
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The 100 Peach Project
I love peaches.
And I mean I love them. I think my relationship with peaches is really a little creepy when you get down to it. Okay, you're probably gonna say that you love peaches, too. And whatever it is, it can't be especially creepy. I mean, this is the internet and all. Well -
You ever cried because you ate a bad peach? I have.
You ever rubbed a peach up against your cheek just to feel the fuzz against your skin before biting in? Definitely done that.
Are you more nervous about eating a peach than you are about, say, asking someone out? I am.
So. The peaches are probably ripening somewhere out there in America, and they'll be put into a truck and shipped to wherever I am, and then I'll eat them. And document each tasty, juicy, easily bruisable experience. At least 100.
It's a hard job, sure. But I'm unemployed. I have a college degree.
THE RULES:
1) We're talking PEACHES. No peach cobbler. No peach juice. No peach ice cream. Whole, raw, beautiful peaches.
2) If it sucks, I can spit it out. It still counts.
3) I don't have to suck at the pit or anything.
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