So now that I’m back in the swing of things, and I’m partway through the reformatting of the site (so exciting!), and even though next month is going to bring in the two new themes (a new novel filled with recipes and a seasonal food), I’ve decided to devote the rest of this month to last month, the month I spent in Paziols, in the south of France.
Paziols is about an hour from Perpignan, very close to the Spanish border. The town itself is tiny, barely warranting the small épicerie and café that serve as the town’s only establishments. However, what the town lacks in variety, it brings with its fresh produce, which brings me to the peaches.
Every Monday, the woman from the town hall who announced all events over the loudspeakers posted at the corner of the square would call out the arrival of the peach lady… but if you were still at home when you heard the announcement, good luck to you at getting any of the produce. This woman would arrive each week with her truck stuffed full of flats of peaches and apricots, as well as homemade jam… and while the goods were more expensive than their cousins sold at the épicerie, nearly the entire town lined up each week bright and early to purchase. When we finally got the hang of it and beat the crowds, lining up with the housewives at 7:30 am, we understood.
I may never look at a peach the same way again. These ones were perfectly soft and downy on the outside, with a goldenrod color throughout the sweet, soft flesh, and a perfect juiciness that sent us running to the porch to finish eating as we leaned over the street. The flavor was concentrated, pure, peachy goodness. We would buy dozens of them, and I would eat nothing but peaches on Monday and Tuesday, slicing them and covering them in fromage frais, the full-fat cousin of Greek yogurt with a slightly sour hint that is so popular eaten with brown sugar or honey.
Now, back in Long Island, my favorite summer fruit is leaving something to be desired, but if I close my eyes, I can almost taste it… I learned the way that peaches are supposed to taste this summer, and I don’t think I will ever think of them the same way.