My walking partner and I made a run on peaches, warm off the tree, juice-dribbling-down-our-chins, sticky, syrupy peaches. She dreamed of baking crisps and cobblers while I envisioned peachy paletas, sweet and tangy, freshly frozen. We made a plan and offed to Efurd's Orchards, to bring home as much blushing fruit as my Mini Cooper would carry.
Pleased with our purchases, and having no other appointments or to-do lists for the day, Becky and I drove into town for lunch and a peek into a past century at a tiny museum. We delighted in our no-plan agenda of selecting produce at the road-side stand and doing as we pleased. Like the peaches in the boot of the Mini, the day had a cheerful glow, having met our expectations as we headed home.
Then there was a rock that sounded like a boulder. Sailing through the air it banged into the three-week new windshield, precisely in my line of vision with no chance to ignore it or look away. The rock, this malevolent speck, bounced away shattering my contentment, leaving a scar so deep it nearly pierced the glass. My peachy glow paled to liquid green with a punch to my suddenly churning stomach.
There was a decision to make. Would the rock in the road ruin my experiences at the orchard? Would it color my delight in creating peach paletas, turning everything lifeless or sour? Would I add it to my lengthy list of recent woes, or could I choose to patch it up, regain strength and retain the sanguine spirit of the day?
Pleased with our purchases, and having no other appointments or to-do lists for the day, Becky and I drove into town for lunch and a peek into a past century at a tiny museum. We delighted in our no-plan agenda of selecting produce at the road-side stand and doing as we pleased. Like the peaches in the boot of the Mini, the day had a cheerful glow, having met our expectations as we headed home.
Then there was a rock that sounded like a boulder. Sailing through the air it banged into the three-week new windshield, precisely in my line of vision with no chance to ignore it or look away. The rock, this malevolent speck, bounced away shattering my contentment, leaving a scar so deep it nearly pierced the glass. My peachy glow paled to liquid green with a punch to my suddenly churning stomach.
There was a decision to make. Would the rock in the road ruin my experiences at the orchard? Would it color my delight in creating peach paletas, turning everything lifeless or sour? Would I add it to my lengthy list of recent woes, or could I choose to patch it up, regain strength and retain the sanguine spirit of the day?
Evil intruded into my life uninvited, but I could not allow it to change my spirit. It did not take minutes or hours, but days to choose delight over dejection. Before the Mini was repaired, with the windshield replaced once again, peach paletas were made and pleasure was reinstated. I picked peaches over pits. It is always the better portion.
Peach Paletas Recipe
3 cups fresh peaches, pitted and peeled, retaining a few ribbons of skin on each peach
1 lime, juice and zest
1 t fresh grated ginger
1/4 cup sugar, or more to taste
1/4-1/2 cup water or club soda, optional*
Combine peaches, lime juice and zest, ginger and sugar in Cuisinart. Pulse until smooth. If a denser paleta is desired, leave out water. If an icy, crunchier texture is preferred, add water or club soda. Pour into molds. Freeze 4-6 hours.
I still think you should post some pictures on FoodGawker!
ReplyDelete