The First Peach

I wove a little story in my head as I finished sewing a set of picnic napkins.  It was a sunset, binoculars, a vintage wagon, a basket, and two perfect peaches.  Don't know what the silverware in the napkins was needed for, but nevermind:  this was a fairytale.  I was going to grab pale green apples out of the wooden bowl for the photo shoot, but I thought that was rather matchy-matchy with all the red and green. 

If I was forced to choose (this is Genevieve's favorite game right now:  would you have a cat or dog?  would you eat jellybeans or Nerds? (I hate both). . . .peaches would be my favorite fruit.  And there they were at market this week, slightly unripe but so pretty.  I sniffed one as I cuddled it in my hand, walking out to the backyard; it was perfectly ripe and fragrant.  The first thing I did when I turned off my camera was hunch over the kitchen sink, rip open the peach, and eat. 

That, my friends, is the reward for waiting for the stuff in season.  No amount of expensive food or kitchen skills can replicate the taste of a peach, a strawberry, a tomato, a what-have-you, when you have waited patiently for that taste for a year. Can I get an amen?

Oh.  The napkins are in the shop.