Peaches

If I were a painter, perhaps I’d have ready language to describe the colors of the peach compote cooling in the glass jars on my kitchen counter. But all I can say is that I love the translucent shades of orange, the lighter chunks of fruit suspended against the deeper shades of thick liquid nectar.

The anticipation I wrote about earlier this spring -- as I admired the deep pink flowers in early May, counted the swelling buds that became small globes later that month, and saw the growing and ripening fruit time we entered or left our front door -- is over. Now the peaches are ripening all at once, and it's time to eat.

I came home Tuesday evening from five days away to find two or three dozen “drops” that Richard had sitting on the counter. These weren’t in the best shape, so I cut away the spoiled parts and simmered the rest into compote. Most of it went into the freezer to be spooned over vanilla yogurt or ice cream, or eaten as is, some time in late winter when 80 degree days seem a distant memory. Some we ate while it was still warm. The rest went into my breakfast smoothie the next day.

Last night, I picked several dozen more peaches. The best went into a bowl for eating – minus the one eaten right off the tree. It was perfect: sweet, juicy, and still warm from the heat of the day although it was already dusk. The rest of the harvest was simmered down into more compote and frozen. I use only a small amount of water (just enough to cover the bottom of the saucepan) and no additional sugar; tree-ripened peaches are sweet enough. 10-15 minutes of simmering, and it's done.

This process will be repeated over the next several days with the fruit remaining on the tree. By the end of the weekend, the peach tree will probably be empty, we’ll have eaten as many peaches as we could, and 6-8 quarts of peach compote will be waiting on the freezer shelf.

As the tree matures, the yield will increase. And then there’s the second peach tree we plan to plant comes fall. I figure we can never have too many reminders of warm August days to carry us through the long winter. After this year, though, I’ll likely turn to canning the peaches instead. And with the sealed Mason jars readily visible, perhaps I’ll find the language to adequately describe those lovely colors.