Peaches #s 30-34: How was your Sunday? Mine was... Peachy.

I went to the Boulder Farmer's market a couple weeks ago, as nervous as a fourteen year-old boy about to meet a girl at the movies and he doesn't know if it's a date or not but god damn he wants it to be a date. My hands were shaking, my mouth was dry, and no matter how fast I walked it didn't seem to be fast enough.

I was nervous because I heard news that there were peaches at the farmer's market. Locally grown, fresh peaches. Sold by real-life friendly peach-farmers. Well. By the time I made it to the farmer's market the peaches were long gone. A line starts to form about an hour before the market opens. Me and the farmers chatted a bit about the heavenly fruit, and I told them about this here blog, and they were a bit tickled that I should have a peach blog.

So, next Wednesday - good old America Day, for those of your keeping track - I made it to the farmer's market early as early could be and got the biggest bag of peaches I could afford and it was all I could talk about all day.

I like my peaches a bit overripe, so I waited until this Sunday morning to eat my wonderful harvest. This morning, butter-knife in hand to cut out the moldy bits, I started my peach odyssey.

I ate four out of six peaches, saving the last two for after dinner. The first peach I ate was good, not great. It was incredibly juicy, though - far juicier than any store-bought peach. It was sweet, and while with most peaches I find that the there are some sections of the peach that are bitter, this was just all around good. The second peach I ate was disappointing. It tasted watery, though it was as juicy as the first peach. It wasn't bad, and only had a slight bitter aftertaste, but it wasn't good.

I thought: damn. There isn't much to write home about these farm-fresh peaches.

Oh, the folly of men! Because I hadn't eaten the next peach, the grand peach, the best damn peach I've had all year: it was sweet, juicy, perfect, and so peachalicious that it made me dizzy with joy. Every bite was good. No. Every bit was GREAT. I couldn't believe my luck. The next peach, while not as good, was still incredibly amazing.

So I sat there in my chair, covered in peach juice, with a funny, blissed-out peach look on my face for five or ten minutes before I could rouse myself out of my chair to do the important tasks of today, like write a post about eating peaches, and wiping the peach juice from around my maw.

It's a hard life I lead, a hard life.