If you look hard enough there are still just a few peaches left. I almost overlooked them at the Fort Greene Farmer’s Market last week, mistaken them for another variety of apples among the already half a dozen or so other bins. Between canning, crisping and just straight out eating, I feel like I’ve gotten my fill of peaches for the summer. But when the last of a harvest is about to leave you for almost a full year, somehow you find the need to buy just a few more.
I haven’t put up whole (well, quarter) peaches in some time. I started canning three years ago and was perhaps a bit overambitious. I put up salsa, dilly beans and jams with ease. How much different could whole fruit be? I was house sitting for my mom for a few weeks and toted my trusty canning pot along with me for the ride. Her kitchen is about 3 times the size of mine with a gorgeous stainless stove and ample marble counter tops. How could I not want to spend every free moment cooking there?
I came home with pounds and pounds of peaches from their local farm, ready to can. Though I wasn’t prepared for the fickleness of peaches. Not too hard, not too soft they had to be just right, blanched for the perfect seconds of time then canned with care. I had a few instances of jars not sealing but eventually canned 5-6 pints of fruit. Though when I later went to enjoy them I found the texture of the peaches reduced to mush, and the flavor far too sugary. After all the stress, I ended up with sub par fruit that got carelessly thrown into a cobbler. I’d almost rather go without peaches than suffer through to make something so flavorless. I was off peaches for good, or so I thought. It was my friend’s perfectly canned bourbon peaches that forced me to go another round with the fickle stone fruit.