Every year, there’s come some sad, sad time when I buy peaches, after having ridden on a tide of peachy deliciousness for weeks, thinking “I know it’s late in the season, but surely there’s time for one more peach.” This is the kind of delusional thinking that can only lead to heartache. This year, we actually made it all the way to day before yesterday, thank you global warming, before we hit the wall of peach apocalypse. Apeachcalypse.
Secret Agent Fred and I were wandering aimlessly through the farmers’ market in the Castro (and let me just mention a farmers’ market is not a destination which anyone who knows either of us in the slightest would expect of us) when I was suckered into a booth filled with peaches and nectarines, two fruits which I think are proof of the existence of god.
The sort-of-cute hippie boy working the stand swore allowing them to sit a few hours in the sun would ripen them. Lying bitch. The whole batch has been lounging in the sun like some out of work pop star in rehab for two gloriously sunny days with absolutely no discernible results. They look like peaches, but that’s where the similarity ends. No scent, no taste, no god of stone fruits.
We were also flimflammed into a couple of batches of basil with dreams of pesto dancing in our pointy little heads. The less said about that particular debacle the better. I made the pesto and it turned out that’s what the garbage disposal is for.
The maddening part of this is that these few weeks at the end of August and early September are the few real summery times we get here in San Francisco. Even then, after a few balmy days, the fog blasts in and we’re back to our parkas, laughing at the tourists in their shorts and sandals and hypothermia.
OK, OK. Autumn. Time to move on to pears, the magic of root vegetable, and avoiding pumpkin lattes. I have recently discovered a new brand of tea called Numi that features a line of white tea flavored with rosebuds. Very ladylike (just like me!) and flavorful so I’m sort of set for the fall.