I miss peaches

I miss the light fuzz under my fingers, the micro prickles irritating my chin. I miss peach aroma in my nose. I miss the pink-verging-on-yellow, the suck of the pit disengaging from flesh. Running my tongue through the hollow where the stone was, the sharp imprint of its honeycomb ridges. 

I miss peaches.

I miss apricots, the sourness of their inner skins. I miss nectarines. I miss the tiny yellow plums and the big plump red ones and the bright little greengages, but I miss the purple Italian prune plums most of all – sweet-crisp-tart and perfect for a jammy pflaumenkuchen. My grandfather had a purple plum tree and I would lay hidden on a big limb way up in the branches eating plums until my stomach hurt. I miss plums.

There are flats of fruits from Mexico and California, lined with tissue paper, each underripe peach stuck with a numbered tag. I can’t do it. The local watermelons are not bad. The cherries are ok.

Last January, a freak cold snap hit the Okanagan — some very bad timing, and one very cold day. The stone fruit crops were completely ruined, ancient orchards destroyed.  

It’s the little things that really hit home. 

I miss peaches.