The Teaches Of Peaches
The first peaches I had here on the property was July 31, 2024. Closing was still a few weeks away, so they weren't technically yet "mine." They were a little too fuzzy, underripe yet mealy, but they were definitively peaches. When I came back to the property on August 15 as the title holder, all of the peaches were gone. Someone had known they were there.
54 1/2 weeks later, I've seen the peaches go from from celadon golf-balls to soft, heavy orbs, a blushing ombré representing the sun's attention. They've lost the thick fuzzy skin which feels a little too close to something sentient, and have ripened into fruit that peels off with fingernails. A peach picked off the tree at 4pm will have you realizing that "juicy, sun-ripened fruit" is ad copy describing the phenomenon of actual juicy, sun-ripened fruit, and that the peach emoji is a perfect stand-in for a perfect rear-end.
I regularly develop crushes on certain trees. If you do not have an ineffable relationship to at least one tree in your life, we probably can't be friends. But at my house in Portland, I haven't had the best luck with trees. I lost 5 big, beautiful trees to bugs, Port Orford disease, and old age (but also...climate change?). Over the spring, the crown jewel of my yard, a 100+ year old cherry tree, uprooted in a windstorm and fell on the house, scaring the shit out of my renters but thankfully leaving them unscathed. None of these tragedies happened because of neglect; I regularly pruned, consulted with arborists, and went extra miles over two decades. I tried, but did I try at the right times, with the right interventions? This is a metaphor —sometimes loss is not about what you could have done differently, and sometimes it is, but you may never know.
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There are more charming trees on this property, and more swoon-worthy ones, but despite the fact that until last week I was still ambivalent about peaches in general, I feel like this peach tree and I have something special. It has my back. I don't know who planted it, whether they were who harvested all the fruit before I closed on the property last year, or if they still alive. There have been a couple of deaths on the property since the turn of the century. Yes, they weigh on me, and yes, I have saged. Several times. Haunted as some things here may be, the peach tree isn't among them. It's a vote of confidence, each peach is a juicy high five shouting, "We're doing this!" I might go so far to say that this tree has a crush on me.
In the last 10 days, I've made peach compote, peach ice cream, peach jam, dried peaches, various peach salads, a peaches-and-cream ice-box cake, and peach smoothies. I had my Andy Warhol moment at last week's Free Community Lunch (where I volunteer on Tuesdays), presenting a parfait of peaches, whipped cream, and Biscoff cookies.
One batch of jam I made in the kitchen of my friend Christina Orchid, a retired restauranteur, in a copper jam kettle on an 8-burner Lacanache gas range. The other I made in my camping kitchen. I can't fix a lawnmower, but I can make peach jam with a single induction burner and a toaster oven. And the next time I'm up at 3 in the morning catastrophizing about money, water, dictatorships, and my dwindling collagen, I'll try to remember this.
Working with less is almost always better than working with more; it's how my first business, Half & Half, lasted for ten years. But sometimes it really is fun to think about more—starting with hot water and plumbing, and ending in my dream kitchen with a 12" deep farmhouse sink, a convection oven, an induction range (though I'd miss gas! get back to me on this one), a butcher block island, and a big ol' slab of marble for rolling out pastry. I would start by making a flaky peach crostata, then a buttery, moist-crumbed snacking cake with peaches baked into the top, then a peach pie made in my signature "home-wrecker" style — lattice crust and streusel topping, together. I'd make another batch of ice cream, this time with a buttermilk base. Oh, I'd also make a barely-sweet buttermilk pie and serve it with the peach jam, and in honor of my mom, a Swiss roulade with fresh peaches and whipped cream. In my outdoor oven, I'd make a pizza with peaches, burrata, and some kind of exotic basil. Back in the kitchen, I'd put up peach mostarda, peach ketchup, peach hot sauce, and end the day with cheese blintzes enrobed in brandied peaches.
Again and again, I have to catch myself from letting the what-could-be over ripen into melancholy for what isn't-right-now. I just walked outside to find 6 fallen peaches, rotting and attracting yellowjackets. That's a shame, but it's also a fact of life. Not every peach can be saved, or savored, or be brought to its full potential. By the time I hit the anniversary of closing on this property on the 15th, most of the peaches will be off the tree, like they were last year. Last week, I got 5 fat Dungeness crab from my neighbors for some peaches and jam, and lettuce and green beans from another neighbor. Later this week I will load up my car and drive around town as "The Peach Lady" just for a day, and make the most of the surplus.
If you're enjoying Bucolia, please spread the word, and share with someone you know who might enjoy it. And if would like to support my writing and the grand project of restoring this property, consider a paid subscription! As of now, none of my writing will be paywalled, but that may change in the future.