Remembering the perfect peach

The most delicious part of the day was morning. Late morning really since I slept in until nearly 11AM. This happens rarely; only when I have no plans and my body can relax and whittle away the hours in sleep.

Upon awakening from my Sleeping Beauty-esque twelve hours of nirvana, I was at a bit of a loss. Breakfast had certainly passed and lunch might have been acceptable but I wasn't quite in the mood. I reached for a peach, another gift from A. It was picked by her husband and was huge-- bigger than my fist-- and a perfect fuzzy blush color. Smelling its skin I imagined layers of peaches, vanilla yogurt and crunchy vanilla. I carefully peeled my peach, its delicate skin sliding off in neat, slim strips. It was just right. Not too soft or too firm and the flesh had somehow escaped marks and bruises. Perhaps it had been picked right off the tree?

I sliced the peach into my favorite bowl. The bowl was rather large, appropriate for a small amount of cereal or a large amount of soup. Sometimes I even use it for serving. When sliced, the peach filled the bowl even threatening to topple on to the floor as I moved from counter to table. There was clearly no room for yogurt and granola. What to do? Eat a few bites to make some room and then compile my Sunday breakfast?

Instead I took a bite, and then another. It was the perfect peach: ripe, soft, the exact blend of sweet and tart. I ate every perfect sun-drenched slice and thought what a shame that A said she didn't really care for peaches.