07 Mar / Racist Peaches
Now, I want to stress from the get-go that I didn’t name them. If anybody wants to suggest a change – purple passion, maybe – then I’m happy to go with that (as long as everybody else is too).
The sole reason that I’m calling them blackboy peaches is because that’s what everybody else calls them, and the essence of communication is using similar words to refer to similar things so everybody knows the hell everybody else is talking about.
Our blackboy peaches have become ripe, all of a sudden. Since the beginning of February they’ve swelled, and forced the tree branches lower and lower, but they’ve been rock-hard every time I give them a test squeeze.
I’ve been waiting and hoping that sooner or later one would start to give a little, and the annual feast would begin.
Rather than one or two, however, there were suddenly a dozen on the ground, and another five came right off when I gave them the gentlest nudge.
That’s seventeen peaches, with more due tomorrow.
I can’t eat seventeen peaches in a day. There’s already chocolate going begging from the quince onset.
It does seem to me that blackboy peaches would go well in a recipe involving chocolate and cake. The same way that zucchini doesn’t. The only part of that worrying me, is that even though it shouldn’t zucchini does, and would that automatically mean that peaches don’t?
If I can cram them into cakes, or muffins, then I can shove them into the freezer and pull them out weekly. That’ll be something nice to look forward to, rather than the burden of quickly rotting fruit taunting me from the fruit bowl.
So if anybody out there in blogland happens to have a nice cake recipe involving racist sounding peaches, then please feel free to leave a note in the comments section.
Otherwise tomorrow it’s going to be me, a kitchen, cocoa, flour, sugar, butter, eggs, peaches and… oh wait. That’s kind of a recipe right there, isn’t it?