I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but here in the South Valley we can grow just about anything. It’s one of the things I love most about living here. Even my family can manage to grow plants and flowers and herbs and vegetables.
And apparently, we can grow peaches. In fact, we can grow approximately eleventy-billion peaches on one peach tree.
Yes, we are that talented. Or, you know, the dirt in South Valley is so good. I’m thinking it’s the dirt because in all honesty all we do with the peach tree is walk outside once in a while and yell at the dogs to stop trying to use the itty-bitty branches on the bottom as doggy dental floss. Pretty much that peach tree takes care of itself and all eleventy-billion of its peaches. (Or course, eleventy-billion is just an estimate. There may have been more peaches than that on the tree.)
Anyway, once those peaches were ripe, the real problems started. In the very beginning, those peaches were so delicious we didn’t want to share. We picked the peaches. We ate the peaches. We grilled them, poached them, cobblered them and even put them in salsa.
And then, about two days into the peach harvest, we suddenly hated peaches. But that was OK, too. Fortunately our friends loved peaches. So we started giving away peaches. And about two days later, all our friends suddenly hated peaches.
Luckily, Harry decided he knew how to can peaches. Now I will tell you, I was not enthusiastic about this idea. Because botulism. But I didn’t have much choice. The tree was dripping with fruit and our friends and neighbors were avoiding eye contact because we might—and I emphasize the word MIGHT—have been loading up bags and doorbell ditching peaches on their doorsteps.
So I agreed that Harry should can the peaches. Sure, I agreed to it because he also agreed to make me peach-infused vodka, but still. I agreed. And I even sent him to a canning class. Again, because botulism.
Well, that class was the biggest mistake ever. He came home from the class with tiny jars of jam (or maybe jelly, I can’t tell the difference between the two) and suddenly he was a canning fiend. He canned peach jelly. He canned peach jam. He canned peach preserves. And they were delicious. So delicious that our neighbors and friends started making eye contact again. And they eagerly accepted our offerings of jars of peaches. And before we knew it, the peach tree was bare. Heck, I didn’t even get any vodka out of the deal. But I did think that was the end of the canning.
No, that was not the end. Somehow, Harry managed to wrangle a friend’s pickle brine recipe out of her and before I knew it, Harry was at LJB buying cucumbers and dill. And then he made some fig jam because we had about 2 billion figs this year. And then he pickled jalapenos. And garlic. Basically, if something was edible and couldn’t get out of Harry’s way, he slammed it into a mason jar and boiled the heck out of it.
I ran out of space to put all his pickles and jams. And once again, people avoided eye contact with us. Heck, I was starting to avoid eye contact with myself when I looked in the mirror. And then Harry mentioned canning meat. And I drew the line. No more mason jars. No more canning. And he reluctantly agreed.
But the other day, in the deep, dark recesses of the garage, hidden under a tarp, I stumbled across a book called, “How to Make Cider.” Because you know, apple season is right around the corner. At least it’s not pickles. Or meat.
