I’ve been burning gas and blowing money on peaches since two weeks ago when my colleague Ben offered me one. I asked him what kind they were and where I could get some.
“Jaemor Peaches. They beat the fool out of Middle Georgia peaches,” Ben says. And he’s talking about that farm market off Ga. 365 in Habersham County. They got more strains of peaches than you can count.
Big ones, small ones, tart ones, sweet ones. All with glorious names like “Rich Lady,” and they ripen at their own quirky rate. I was about to learn all about that.
So I hit the road for Jaemor in Alto, and I cut a beeline for the peaches as I step out of the car. Of course everybody’s crowding that section of the market. It’s peach season.
There’s a gentleman circling the crowd with a pocketknife and a peach. He’s whittling wedges from the fruit and passing them out, looking happy to share the flavor.
He cuts me off a slice, and I say, “sold,” and glide over to the register with five pounds of peaches in a basket. Only $12, and as I speed home I start dreaming about them.
Excited, I grab one from the toppling mass in the basket on the passenger seat. I take a hearty bite and something cracks in my jaw.
I nearly swerve off the road.
With a little bit of Internet research when I get home, I find out you’re supposed to allow fruit to ripen. Swear I learn something new every day.
So I sit them on the kitchen table, stately in their basket, and flip on the television. These things take time apparently. But they beckon from the corner of my eye.
I try to ignore them, but they just keep glistening in my peripheral vision. “That’s it!” I proclaim, assured that in the four hours since I purchased them they’ll be juicy and soft to the touch.
This time I ease into it, gumming the peach to test it, but I get too excited and rug burn my face on the fuzz. I throw it against the wall, where it leaves a dent.
So I figure it’s time to fast-track this thing. Push the fast forward button. I do some more Internet research and learn you can cheat nature by sticking fruit in a paper sack.
And that’s just what I do. I get a big, old brown bag and dump them all in there and tape it shut, dreaming of the glory that awaits me in 24 hours.
When I get home from work the next day, I go straight for that bag of peaches. I tear it open and gape into the darkness. A single tear falls as I stare into the wet, rotting mass.
So I fill up the gas tank again and take another trip to Jaemor. I have to learn the secret of the ripening peach. I approach the gentleman with the pocketknife handing out the peaches.
“The secret,” he says, whittling on a peach. He takes a moment to ponder it. “The secret is sharing. If you share, then you won’t have to eat them so fast. You won’t have so many peaches to worry about.”
On the way home I stop at my parents’ house and give them three or four from a fresh basket. Then I swing by my buddy’s house and let him grab a few. When I get home, there’s one lonely peach left in the basket.
And that peach has gone everywhere with me for the past few days.
I brought it to work the other day, just waiting for the right moment to eat it, picking it up every couple minutes to examine its ripeness.
I kept an eye on Ben, though. I know how much he loves peaches.
“Jaemor Peaches. They beat the fool out of Middle Georgia peaches,” Ben says. And he’s talking about that farm market off Ga. 365 in Habersham County. They got more strains of peaches than you can count.
Big ones, small ones, tart ones, sweet ones. All with glorious names like “Rich Lady,” and they ripen at their own quirky rate. I was about to learn all about that.
So I hit the road for Jaemor in Alto, and I cut a beeline for the peaches as I step out of the car. Of course everybody’s crowding that section of the market. It’s peach season.
There’s a gentleman circling the crowd with a pocketknife and a peach. He’s whittling wedges from the fruit and passing them out, looking happy to share the flavor.
He cuts me off a slice, and I say, “sold,” and glide over to the register with five pounds of peaches in a basket. Only $12, and as I speed home I start dreaming about them.
Excited, I grab one from the toppling mass in the basket on the passenger seat. I take a hearty bite and something cracks in my jaw.
I nearly swerve off the road.
With a little bit of Internet research when I get home, I find out you’re supposed to allow fruit to ripen. Swear I learn something new every day.
So I sit them on the kitchen table, stately in their basket, and flip on the television. These things take time apparently. But they beckon from the corner of my eye.
I try to ignore them, but they just keep glistening in my peripheral vision. “That’s it!” I proclaim, assured that in the four hours since I purchased them they’ll be juicy and soft to the touch.
This time I ease into it, gumming the peach to test it, but I get too excited and rug burn my face on the fuzz. I throw it against the wall, where it leaves a dent.
So I figure it’s time to fast-track this thing. Push the fast forward button. I do some more Internet research and learn you can cheat nature by sticking fruit in a paper sack.
And that’s just what I do. I get a big, old brown bag and dump them all in there and tape it shut, dreaming of the glory that awaits me in 24 hours.
When I get home from work the next day, I go straight for that bag of peaches. I tear it open and gape into the darkness. A single tear falls as I stare into the wet, rotting mass.
So I fill up the gas tank again and take another trip to Jaemor. I have to learn the secret of the ripening peach. I approach the gentleman with the pocketknife handing out the peaches.
“The secret,” he says, whittling on a peach. He takes a moment to ponder it. “The secret is sharing. If you share, then you won’t have to eat them so fast. You won’t have so many peaches to worry about.”
On the way home I stop at my parents’ house and give them three or four from a fresh basket. Then I swing by my buddy’s house and let him grab a few. When I get home, there’s one lonely peach left in the basket.
And that peach has gone everywhere with me for the past few days.
I brought it to work the other day, just waiting for the right moment to eat it, picking it up every couple minutes to examine its ripeness.
I kept an eye on Ben, though. I know how much he loves peaches.