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There Were Three Peaches in the Bowl
She washed them all at once, not intending to eat them all at once of course, but if they were all ready to be eaten, she could snack on them over the course of a couple of days. She ran cold water over their fuzzy skin and watched how the skin resisted it, causing the water to bead up in shimmery droplets and rivulets, and abandon the fruit to find the crusts and crumbs on her garlic-scented, dirty dishes in the sink. The peaches felt heavier, denser than their little bodies would indicate, and beneath the velvety skin, the flesh yielded slightly to the pressure of her fingers. She dried each one off gently with a dish towel, blotting them, rather than rubbing them, in order not to loosen any of the soft skin.
After drying each, she reverently replaced them in the vintage, green, milk-glass bowl, until the trinity were reunited in their new, dampened state. She admired the palette of colors that the fruit and the bowl made together. The bowl was that nostalgic, minty shade of green that recalled the simpler times of the 50's. It emphasized the wholesomeness of the fruit. The peaches, each rosy pink on one side, transformed seamlessly to golden sunshine on the other. Now, she also noticed their perfume. She placed the bowl on the table, intending to walk away and finish her chores, but as her eyes lingered on fruit, the small rumble from her stomach reminded her that it was lunch time after all.
Her eyes never left the bowl or its contents as she pulled a chair from under the kitchen table and took a seat. She picked up the nearest peach and sniffed at the shallow path along its side that led to the dimple where a vestige of stem remained. It had a small, slightly bruised spot which did not detract from its perfection, but was a sign that she needed to eat this peach right now, before the little soft spot became worse, before it turned brown and squishy. So she lingered no longer, and bit the peach. As she broke through the fuzz and the skin, and her teeth sank into glorious, golden flesh, juice immediately ran down her fingers and thumb, to her wrist. The explosion of bright, sunny flavor reminded her that this peach had never seen the inside of a refrigerator. She could picture the green orchard, hear the buzzing of flies, and feel the warmth of the sunshine that fed her peach until it was plump and global. She bit it again and again, easily separating the pit from the flesh in the middle of the peach, which was redder, as if she had gotten to the heart of it. And indeed she could almost feel its peach heart beating and pumping the juice through its carcass and down her arm where it formed a sticky puddle on the table top.
As she ate the last couple bites of the fruit, she placed the brown, wrinkled, hard pit into the bowl beside the remaining peaches. She contemplated the pit and how it resembled wood in its texture. She wondered if it would be possible to make a piece of furniture using peach pits. She thought she would very much like a chair made of peach pits. It would always gently emit the aroma of the soft part of summer. She could put it near the fireplace in the winter, and close her eyes, and dream. She knew this would be calming. She took a napkin from the holder and made an attempt to mop up the juice that had gone astray. Her eyes wandered back to the two remaining peaches. Without wasting too much energy on conscious deliberation she picked up the second peach and bit it. It was as sweet as the first peach, yet had a distinctly different flavor. In fact, this peach seemed to have subtly differing flavors depending on where she bit it, sweeter here, tarter here. She remembered seeing bushels of peaches at the outdoor farmers' market her parents took her to when she was a child. She remembered her mother's peach cobbler. As if the fruit weren't sweet enough, she sprinkled it generously with sugar and let it sit that way in a bowl for at least an hour. A bowl much like the one she kept her own peaches in. The cobbler's crust was made of more sugar, white flour, and a vast amount of melted butter. It was the epitome of summer evenings in her mind, taken from the oven bubbling golden lava, and cooling throughout dinner, which was likely something her father had grilled on the back porch. By the time they had finished dinner, the cobbler was warm and sticky. Sometimes they had it with ice cream. She lingered in the kitchen as long as she could after dinner trying to pinch extras of the cobbler. Through the screen door the crickets urged her on.
She looked down to see that the table was once again covered with peach juice, as were her chin and her arm. Some of the juice had dripped back into the bowl, and made a peach juice pool where two brown wrinkled pits, and one rosy peach remained. Gazing absent-mindedly at peach number three, she dabbed at her arm with the paper napkin which was rather ineffective at cleaning up the stickiness. She looked in the bowl. It seemed to be senseless to leave the third peach marinating in the juice of its sister and brother. As she began eating the last peach she considered the possibility that she was committing the deadly sin of gluttony. She couldn't think of anybody else she knew who would be eating three peaches for lunch today. She thought of all the deprived people who lived in parts of the country that were not experiencing the glory days of peach season. She'd heard that some places didn't get peaches until they were mealy, juiceless, and lacking in intense, fresh flavor. Her guilt was short-lived however, as she realized wondrously that this peach was every bit as good as the first two. She bit off smaller bites in a circumference around the peach at first, trying to make this one last a little longer. She rubbed the soft, remaining peach fuzz above her upper lip, and imagined that if she had to have a moustache, it should feel like this, and glow golden like this, and always smell as sweet as this. She ceremoniously consumed the rest of the peach, saying a prayer with each bite to thank the peach deities. After sitting for a moment, and savoring the way the peaches were warming her pleasantly full stomach and giving her a burst of energy and contentment, she got up to go wash her hands and face, and finish her chores. The green bowl remained on the table. It held three brown, wrinkled pits, and a small pool of juice.
She washed them all at once, not intending to eat them all at once of course, but if they were all ready to be eaten, she could snack on them over the course of a couple of days. She ran cold water over their fuzzy skin and watched how the skin resisted it, causing the water to bead up in shimmery droplets and rivulets, and abandon the fruit to find the crusts and crumbs on her garlic-scented, dirty dishes in the sink. The peaches felt heavier, denser than their little bodies would indicate, and beneath the velvety skin, the flesh yielded slightly to the pressure of her fingers. She dried each one off gently with a dish towel, blotting them, rather than rubbing them, in order not to loosen any of the soft skin.
After drying each, she reverently replaced them in the vintage, green, milk-glass bowl, until the trinity were reunited in their new, dampened state. She admired the palette of colors that the fruit and the bowl made together. The bowl was that nostalgic, minty shade of green that recalled the simpler times of the 50's. It emphasized the wholesomeness of the fruit. The peaches, each rosy pink on one side, transformed seamlessly to golden sunshine on the other. Now, she also noticed their perfume. She placed the bowl on the table, intending to walk away and finish her chores, but as her eyes lingered on fruit, the small rumble from her stomach reminded her that it was lunch time after all.
Her eyes never left the bowl or its contents as she pulled a chair from under the kitchen table and took a seat. She picked up the nearest peach and sniffed at the shallow path along its side that led to the dimple where a vestige of stem remained. It had a small, slightly bruised spot which did not detract from its perfection, but was a sign that she needed to eat this peach right now, before the little soft spot became worse, before it turned brown and squishy. So she lingered no longer, and bit the peach. As she broke through the fuzz and the skin, and her teeth sank into glorious, golden flesh, juice immediately ran down her fingers and thumb, to her wrist. The explosion of bright, sunny flavor reminded her that this peach had never seen the inside of a refrigerator. She could picture the green orchard, hear the buzzing of flies, and feel the warmth of the sunshine that fed her peach until it was plump and global. She bit it again and again, easily separating the pit from the flesh in the middle of the peach, which was redder, as if she had gotten to the heart of it. And indeed she could almost feel its peach heart beating and pumping the juice through its carcass and down her arm where it formed a sticky puddle on the table top.
As she ate the last couple bites of the fruit, she placed the brown, wrinkled, hard pit into the bowl beside the remaining peaches. She contemplated the pit and how it resembled wood in its texture. She wondered if it would be possible to make a piece of furniture using peach pits. She thought she would very much like a chair made of peach pits. It would always gently emit the aroma of the soft part of summer. She could put it near the fireplace in the winter, and close her eyes, and dream. She knew this would be calming. She took a napkin from the holder and made an attempt to mop up the juice that had gone astray. Her eyes wandered back to the two remaining peaches. Without wasting too much energy on conscious deliberation she picked up the second peach and bit it. It was as sweet as the first peach, yet had a distinctly different flavor. In fact, this peach seemed to have subtly differing flavors depending on where she bit it, sweeter here, tarter here. She remembered seeing bushels of peaches at the outdoor farmers' market her parents took her to when she was a child. She remembered her mother's peach cobbler. As if the fruit weren't sweet enough, she sprinkled it generously with sugar and let it sit that way in a bowl for at least an hour. A bowl much like the one she kept her own peaches in. The cobbler's crust was made of more sugar, white flour, and a vast amount of melted butter. It was the epitome of summer evenings in her mind, taken from the oven bubbling golden lava, and cooling throughout dinner, which was likely something her father had grilled on the back porch. By the time they had finished dinner, the cobbler was warm and sticky. Sometimes they had it with ice cream. She lingered in the kitchen as long as she could after dinner trying to pinch extras of the cobbler. Through the screen door the crickets urged her on.
She looked down to see that the table was once again covered with peach juice, as were her chin and her arm. Some of the juice had dripped back into the bowl, and made a peach juice pool where two brown wrinkled pits, and one rosy peach remained. Gazing absent-mindedly at peach number three, she dabbed at her arm with the paper napkin which was rather ineffective at cleaning up the stickiness. She looked in the bowl. It seemed to be senseless to leave the third peach marinating in the juice of its sister and brother. As she began eating the last peach she considered the possibility that she was committing the deadly sin of gluttony. She couldn't think of anybody else she knew who would be eating three peaches for lunch today. She thought of all the deprived people who lived in parts of the country that were not experiencing the glory days of peach season. She'd heard that some places didn't get peaches until they were mealy, juiceless, and lacking in intense, fresh flavor. Her guilt was short-lived however, as she realized wondrously that this peach was every bit as good as the first two. She bit off smaller bites in a circumference around the peach at first, trying to make this one last a little longer. She rubbed the soft, remaining peach fuzz above her upper lip, and imagined that if she had to have a moustache, it should feel like this, and glow golden like this, and always smell as sweet as this. She ceremoniously consumed the rest of the peach, saying a prayer with each bite to thank the peach deities. After sitting for a moment, and savoring the way the peaches were warming her pleasantly full stomach and giving her a burst of energy and contentment, she got up to go wash her hands and face, and finish her chores. The green bowl remained on the table. It held three brown, wrinkled pits, and a small pool of juice.
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Atlanta
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