Ever since Saturday's cobbler, the only thing I've wanted is peaches. (Sure, my dinner companion and I pretended to eat Mexican food last night, but really, secretly, we were dreaming those fajitas were peaches.) Fresh, grilled, baked, roasted - I don't care. Give this girl a peach.
So all-consuming was my craving for juicy peaches that I left work a tad early yesterday (I started a new oil and gas client on Monday. Did I tell you?) and ran by the local peach orchard. My timing was a little off, but the kind peach folks didn't care.
There were baskets and bags and boxes of the beautiful, fuzzy fruits on top of and beneath every table and surface imaginable. I kept turning in a circle, squinting, thinking, this can't be real... this can't be real. It was. My blue dress and I were in heaven - gastronomic and sensory heaven.
I'm such a simple-minded simpleton. Drop me by a country peach orchard on a sunny, breezy summer day and I'm about as happy as a girl could ever be. Throw in some sweet tea, roll down the car windows and crank up Patty Griffin on the radio, and it's a downright splendid day. Yeah. Huh, it was the perfect summer weekday: coffee, dress, work, orchard, dinner date, sweet iced tea, ceiling fan, bed. They don't come any better than that.
Okay, so maybe I question Picasso and say the peaches were just a detail. But a happy one nonetheless. Now I just need to decide what to do with all this... the happiness and the peaches.