I did a bad, bad thing.
Friday afternoon, after work, I stopped at our local farmer's market. Amid the reds of tomatoes, the deep purple globes of eggplant, and the indigo of perfect, round blueberries, there was a banker's box full of peaches.
A hand lettered sign read: $15.
These were not perfect, identical, creamy skinned peaches. No. Some had oozing patches, bruises, little bumps like acne on a teenager's face. But the scent rising from the box was summer incarnate.
I bought the box.
Lugged 20 pounds of imperfect peaches home.
Today, I canned 6 quarts of sliced peaches and had enough left over to make a huge peach cobbler. I think when I fall asleep, I will dream of peaches and the sticky mess of peach juice running down my arms.