Just Peachy

My Grandfather knows me well: I'd barely set my luggage down at his place in Alabama when he presented me with two big baskets of magnificent Southern peaches. I could wax poetic about these peaches in the same way Proust babbled on about his famous madeleine; the associations conjured up by this particular kind of peach are so strong that one bite catapults me back to the happiest summers of my childhood.

True, I've become spoiled by California's wealth of local, organic produce, but nothing can replace the feelings I have for the velvety orb that is the Southern peach. They are practically the size of grapefruits, with tender flesh that is perfectly ripe from pit to skin. If you are going to bite into one, you must roll up your sleeves and stand over the sink because the sweet juices will run down your arms and drip off your elbows. I think I'll do that right now...