(If you will indulge me in just one more produce post, I will promise to move on…)
“Now that’s a peach!”
That’s what my James said, juice running down his arm, as he hung from a branch, sampling the farmer’s wares.
My little fruit lover has been longing for that sweetness ever since he asked me to buy peaches a few weeks back at the grocery store, which turned out to taste “exactly like nothing would taste if nothing could taste,” in his estimation.
So, of course, it was with the highest of hopes, that he carried his basket down the dusty trail.
You might imagine then, that when my man discovered that these peaches were REAL peaches, peaches that taste exactly how the summer sunset would taste if the summer sunset could taste, he picked himself silly.
When every basket in a 10 mile radius had been filled, he wiped his brow, cursed the creation of biting insects, declared that farming was for the birds, and that he’s moving to Canada where it is not 100 degrees
This, precisely 2.3 seconds before he said, “Do you think we could pick some blackberries too? There’s only a few left in the whole summer!”
Even a small farmer can understand, you see, that this time, this gathering time, is as fleetingly precious as it is laborious, and that when the shoes are kicked off, when the ice cream has been scooped, the fruits of one’s labor are sweet indeed.