People often ask me if Georgia peaches are actually better than any other peach in the country. I look at them, flash my prettiest southern belle smile and tell them as bluntly as a Yankee, “Yes.” No other explanation is needed, in my opinion, and I can’t help but feel indignant that such a question is even thought appropriate of a Georgia Peach about her Georgia peaches. If they push me with the question why, I simply tell them “They just are.” End of story.
Since moving to Seattle, I have thrice attempted to eat a Washington peach in an effort to satiate my mouth of the sweet nectar I’ve since left behind in Georgia. All three tries were met with sadness, and a swearing off of all peaches outside of the Georgia state line. They just couldn’t compare to the plump, juicy, warm, sweet, peaches I grew up eating as a child. The kind of peaches where the juice runs down your neck faster than your teeth can finish sinking into the skin and popping its soft, fruit flesh into your mouth.
The other day, I saw flats of peaches at Metropolitan Market in Queen Anne and walked over to survey what I thought would be a pitiful attempt at growing such a glorious fruit. I picked them up. I gently squeezed them in my hand. I thought, let’s give them one more try. My boyfriend told me that I probably hadn’t had a peach that was in season yet. Peaches are in season for most of the summer in the South and for the state of Washington, our summers rarely start before August. Respecting his conjecture, I bought two and took them home to try. Hesitantly, I picked one up after I got home that day and took my first bite.
And as I wiped my chin with the back of my hand from the juice that ran down my face, I found it to be quite lovely…not divine…but lovely.