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Setting

  • The Markets: Any of the farmers markets in Chicago that I work throughout the week.
  • The Orchard (aka the Farm): 81 acres in Southwest Michigan, about 2.5 hours from Chicago.

 

Cast of characters

  • Peter: My boss and chief fruit slinger.
  • Lupe: Farm foreman. Lives at the orchard and directs the day-to-day agricultural labor.
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    Entries in peaches (15)

    Wednesday
    23Sep2009
    DateWednesday, 23 September 2009 at 08:57 PM

    There is time to try a lot of apples

    "When I was a little girl, I picked these for like three hours when we were on vacation at the lake."

    "I took them to my mom, who was smoking with the other moms — because that's what they did in those days."

    "And she and the other moms just sat there smoking and eating them."

    "Like it was nothing?"

    "Like it was nothing."

    There was a matter-of-fact melancholy about the way she told the story.

    But she seemed pleased to find the fraises des bois.

    * * *

    "So, you know those two melons you've got in your hands? We don't know what they are. They're mystery melons."

    "Yes, well. I know what they are."

    "You do? Really?"

    "Yes."

    "Well, great. Then you're a few steps ahead of us."

    * * * 

    It would be good if people let go of the notion that there is only one apple that will satisfy them — one ideal apple for their sauce, one ideal apple for their pie, one ideal apple for their snack. 

    I see people starting to crack under the pressure — wracked with indecision when faced with so many apples — and I desperately want them to be OK.

    Well. I want me to be OK, too. And it's closely related.

    At any rate, I swear to you: It's going to be OK.

    Apple season is a solid two months, at least. There is time to try a lot of apples.

    It's never enough time, I'll grant you.

    But there is time.

    * * * 

    That's a Melrouge in the photograph at the top of this post. It's a cross between [shudder!] a Red Delicious and [squeal!] a Jonathan.

    I scored it off another orchard.

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    Friday
    11Sep2009
    DateFriday, 11 September 2009 at 02:31 PM

    The last word on peaches

    This past week, I've been tying up my loose ends with peaches. I canned them four ways: in halves in medium syrup, as preserves lightly sweetened with white grape juice, as straight-forward jam sweetened with sugar, and, finally, as a peach butter spiced with ginger, cloves and cinnamon.

    Today, I'm freezing the rest of the peaches. And then that's it. I'm done with peaches.

    I'm not sure how good this peach season has been, on the whole. I've had some good peaches. But as a season I'm not sure it was the best. I'm not sure last year was either.

    I thought about it a little. For me, probably the best season was three years ago.

    That is also the first season that I worked for the orchard — the first season I was surrounded by fruit, the first season I carted home peaches by the boxful.  

    I hear from a lot of people about their fruit memories. And now I'm thinking back to those peaches three years ago.

    The reality is, peaches may never be that good again. 

    * * *

    I wish that someone — before I started down this whole path of canning — had given me permission to start a canning project one day and finish it the next. Because some canning projects are quick. And some of them are not. And sometimes you are tired or you would like to eat dinner at 8pm and not midnight.

    And so I am hereby giving you permission to start a canning project, determine an intelligent stopping point, stick it in the fridge, and finish the whole thing the next day.

    Christine Ferber, in Mes Confitures, actually designs many of her recipes that way. But there is nothing magical about that aspect of her recipes. It can work with pretty much any canning recipe.

    This is probably blindingly obvious to some of you. And then the rest of you are like I was.

    * * * 

    I don't enjoy peeling peaches. You either do it with a sharp knife, a dash of recklessness and a lot of patience, or you blanch the peaches and then dunk them in ice water to peel them.

    Neither method is hassle-free.

    But this time around, I found that a vegetable peeler can work if your peaches are ripe but firm, with just a slight bit of give to them — which you can determine by poking the hell out of the peaches that you've already paid for.

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    Wednesday
    09Sep2009
    DateWednesday, 09 September 2009 at 06:19 PM

    Deep-fried peaches

    "Excuse me, do you remember which melon I bought last week?"

    No.

    I really, really don't.

    * * * 

    "Hello!"

    "Do you work here? Or are you just being friendly?"

    "Well. I'm wearing a fruit-stained T-shirt that says sweet."

    "That doesn't have to mean anything. I don't like to assume."

    "Fair enough. But, for the record, I'm not that friendly when I'm not working here."

    * * * 

    Let me be absolutely clear: Deep-fried peaches are not the sort of afternoon snack that I would be making if I did not have a fruit blog. Because it requires planning at least three hours ahead, then later stirring vigorously for 10 solid minutes, then later whipping egg whites, then finally heating a pot of oil to 360 degrees. Oh, and purchasing a bottle of brandy — which if it seemed like a questionable idea beforehand, certainly seemed less questionable after all that.

    At any rate, it's not the sort of afternoon snack I would be making if I didn't have a fruit blog.

    But I have a fruit blog. 

    So I made the deep-fried peaches in between making lightly sweetened peach preserves, spiced peach butter, peach preserves . . . and an unholy mess. 

    You can find the recipe for deep-fried peaches here in the New York Times archives.

    The recipe was suggested to me by a customer. 

    Talking about cooking with customers is one of the best parts of my job.

    I ate my deep-fried peach with a dollop of spiced peach butter on top.

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    Friday
    28Aug2009
    DateFriday, 28 August 2009 at 05:49 PM

    Can I ask you to do something for me, Dan?

    "Hello, can I have some peaches?"

    "Would you like the $3 pint or the $5 quart?"

    "How about a $3 pint."

    "Sounds good."

    "What was your name again?"

    "I'm Dan."

    "Dan, I'm Nick." He reached out his hand. I shook it, firmly but reluctantly.

    "Can I ask you to do something for me, Dan?"

    "Yes. . . ."

    "Dan, can you pick out some really good peaches for me? Can you pick out the peaches that you would bring home to your family and friends?"

    "Well . . ." I paused. "I mean, usually, I just bring them home the bruised ones."

    I checked to make sure his peaches weren't bruised and placed them gently in the bag, just as I try to do for everyone — whether you introduce yourself, shake my hand, or wink at me.

    Did I mention he winked at me?

    He winked at me.

    Twice.

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    Monday
    24Aug2009
    DateMonday, 24 August 2009 at 04:32 PM

    "Well, you could work at the farmers market"

    Summer is winding down and, if I doubted it for a moment, I was reminded when we had to break out the lanterns to set up at the markets. It's hard to tell if a peach is bruised — or which apple is which — in the dark.

    On Thursday, I took a walk around the orchard. The apples all look pretty much the same until a certain point, but now you can easily tell them apart.

    I snapped a photo of some RedCorts — they are very handsome apples — before I stood contemplating a HoneyCrisp tree. It's funny, you know; the trees don't look like pure evil.

    Standing there, I felt the longer, surer days of summer slipping away, and the uncertainty of autumn creeping in.

    * * *

    "Do you have any apricots?"

    "No, sorry. We sold out. I'm pretty sure those were the last of the season, too."

    "Wow. I need to find a way to get to the farmers market earlier."

    "Well, you could work at the farmers market."

    "Ha. Actually, I did for a few years. So, no thank you."

    "I hear you."

    * * * 

    I have seen people linger, tarry, dawdle, hem, haw and hesitate. But Christ on a pogo stick, I have never seen a man take so long to buy fruit.

    You came around three times, at least. I didn't speak with you the first time.

    On your second visit, you spoke to me: "So, you're packing up?" I responded that I was packing up, yes, but that I would be happy to sell you something — an exaggeration, but not an outright lie. You stared at the plums and then walked away.

    But, oh, then you came back!

    We talked about the different plums, as I took each container from the table and poured it back into the crate to be stacked on the truck. You asked if you could make a pint-sized basket out of all the plums — a little variety pack of your very own. The answer, really, is not so much. I mean, we'd prefer not to do it that way.

    But here's the thing: If I like you and want to make you happy, then I may say yes. And if I don't like you and want nothing more than for you to go away, I may also say yes.

    Having assembled your basket of plums, you asked — after almost eternal consideration — if you could switch out one of the plums for a peach.

    Do you remember a paragraph ago I talked about being a little more flexible for people I like, and a little more flexible for people I don't like?

    Yes, you can have a peach.

    But not because I like you.

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