If George Washington wanted to be my favorite president, then instead of offing a cherry tree, he would have chopped down every peach orchard in the United States.
I used to think peaches were delicious fruit. I used to say they were a pleasant color. I used to believe that nothing else worked as well in peach cobbler.
But that was then. Today, I demand that all peaches be consigned to the compost heap of history.
Like any innocent child, I started out liking peaches. Then my mother brought home a particular basket. Inside were twenty peaches, give or take a hundred.
“The farmers’ market had extra,” she said, beaming. “And they’re in season, so they must be eaten fresh. They’ll go bad by the end of the week.”
I did some quick mental math. I am not known for swiftness of calculation, but I saw a definite blocker to my progress.
“To finish this by the end of the week, I have to eat five peaches a day,” I said.
“You like peaches,” my mother replied.
“Not that much,” I parried.
“You like peaches,” she insisted. And that was that. So began the slog.
Downing a peach for breakfast was easy enough. Sometimes I could manage another one with lunch. But every day there were more. I swear they multiplied in the basket.
I tried to sneak them into other foods. Peaches can be disguised pretty well in salsa. I worked another half into a corn and tomato salad.
But lo and behold, the evening rolled around, and I was still three peaches behind pace. And that was on a good day.
There was no sneaky way to get rid of them. The dog wasn’t interested. And I couldn’t let good food go to waste.
Besides, even if I did want to bury them or set them on fire or hide them in the depths of the garbage can, my mother would know. She spent a lot of time with me in the kitchen.
Days crept by. I began to run out of foods to pair the peaches with. When I tell you that I seriously considered adding peach to baked cod, you will understand my desperation.
At last, I had an epiphany. My neighbor’s gutter was not too far from my kitchen window. If I lobbed them right, the last few peaches would disappear.
I just had to figure out how to do it without Mom looking.
Fortunately, a friend of mine was in town for the weekend. I called him up and explained my troubles. He suggested a game of tennis.
It was too good of an excuse. My spirits rose as I sailed out the door, tennis racket in one hand, two peaches in the other.
I walked around the side of the house, out of sight of the kitchen window. My friend was there, waiting.
With a serve that would have made Serena Williams proud, I shot a peach onto my neighbor’s roof. My friend did the same. His bounced off the chimney.
I snatched it from the ground and sent it up again. This time it stayed. We went off to the courts feeling pretty proud of ourselves.
When I returned home, there was another basket on the kitchen table. Inside were twenty red-orange orbs, give or take a hundred.
“What are those?” I cried, stabbing at them with my racket.
“There’s no need to yell,” sniffed Mom. “I know you like nectarines.”
Copyright 2024 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.
