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On the Peach With the exception of the tomato, no fruit has been abused like the peach. Drafted for long-distance shipping, its often plucked before it’s time and sentenced to hard labour, an unwitting candidate for canning. Of
all the fruit grown in North America only apples are harvested in larger
numbers. This results in a certain need for consistency. Peach growers
are forever seeking perfect symmetry, with a predictable crease and a
cosmetically correct blush. But consistency, as we know, is the enemy of
character. This is true for people as well as peaches. I
have always felt uneasy about peaches. Having encountered my first one
from a can (those half moons that look like giant egg yolks and are
often stuffed with cottage cheese), I felt entitled to a degree of
antipathy, even if the occasional peach cobbler or pie tugged against
the bias. Granted, some canned peaches can be put to exceptional use;
but that’s quite apart from an exceptional peach, one that begs to be
intimately fondled. The
first rule of coming to an understanding of the peach it to touch them
tenderly. Sniff, don’t pinch should be the motto here. The blush
doesn’t matter much and neither does the shape. Once
you have experience a perfect peach and its honeylike nectar you will be
forever jolted from canned life to real life. For peaches plucked before
their times and destined to become ice cream, pies and cobblers, one
should administer a compassionate dose of honey, brown sugar or bourbon.
For delicacies like the puree of peaches that form the basis of
Italy’s champagne cocktail, the Bellini, a dash of sugar is in order. I
have also come to understand that the sweetness of a peach is a
balancing act between bitter and nectar, between the tickling fuzz, the
delicacy of the skin, the lushness of the pulp and the danger of the
pit. Though
the peach was thought for centuries to have originated in Persia, hence
its botanical name, Prunus persica, botanists are now certain that as
early as the fifth century BC, the peach was cultivated in China, where
it is called Tao, a symbol of life, immortality and death. Beneath
the sweet, giving flesh, there is, inevitably, the pit. (That’s life!)
A cyanide compound, it’s what gives the peach its almond tone, what
makes it a bittersweet conundrum. In
the case of clingstone peaches, the pit clutches the fruit in a most
unliberated fashion, and it is therefore better suited for industrial
canning than home cooking. Freestone peaches on the other hand fall
gratefully from their stones. If purchased from a farm stall or
specialty producer, and allowed to ripen at room temperature, they are
sublime eaten plain, served with prosciutto or steeped in vinegar as a
condiment for rich meats. I have lately taken to grilling them on the
B.B.Q with a little balsamic vinegar brushed over. Sight
and smell are the most infallible guides to buying peaches. In other
words, don’t buy a peach that doesn’t smell like a peach, and
don’t buy a hard unyielding peach that looks green beneath its bionic
blush. Once
you have picked well, you are then ready for one of life’s `peak
experiences, according to Brillat-Savarin in “The Physiology of
Taste” The initial taste, he wrote, induces the eater to continue, to
chew his juicy mouthful. But the peach does not truly reveal its perfume
until fully swallowed. Only then, writes the 19th century
philosopher, will the taster stop and say to himself, “How
delicious”. Spicy
Peach Vinegar Makes
1 cup 4
peaches, peeled and sliced 2
1 to 2 inch cinnamon sticks 3
1 ¼ cups rice wine vinegar 1)
Place the peach slices and cinnamon sticks into a 16-oz bottle or jar.
In a non-reactive saucepan, warm the vinegar over low heat until hot but
not boiling. Immediately pour through a funnel into the bottle, leaving
just enough room for a cork stopped or lid. Close and store in a cool,
dark place for 10 days before using. |
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