It feels strange to get close to the end of the peaches. I wait all year for them. I rejoice at the blooms, fret over curl, clean up dropped leaves and fruit, prune and fertilize- all for that three weeks of bliss. The smell of the ripe fruit is bliss. The taste of the brown sugar sweetness is bliss. The mass quantities of stored produce is bliss. The look of the fruit on the tree is bliss.
Now, I am almost done processing surplus and every bag of frozen or dried peaches is carefully allotted to a future month for muffins, ice cream, fluff, or cobbler. Yet, the memory of that 3/4 pound perfect peach, juice running all over my hands and chin, still warm from the sun- hmmm. It makes me long for the next year even as this year finishes.
My husband doesn't really like peaches all that much. He will tolerate peach ice cream, and sometimes Fluff- but he generally doesn't eat them out of hand. Aha, you say! More for me? Yes, that is a logical extrapolation, but my little cherubs help themselves to the surplus. They benefit from the stores and the baking. My family comes out of the woodwork sniffing, searching, whining.
Tomorrow, I make a birthday cake with homemade peach ice cream. This is the cap on a dinner for 10 for my husband's sister and her family. Max will be 3, and I am mid 50's. I am hoping to have the slightest bit of control over the last of the peaches. I am not ready for my family to help finish off the season- I want the last ones all to myself.
Then I will patiently wait to do the happy dance next spring.