Fruit Crumble
When July comes and local peaches ripen, I’ll think of Prine again and weep freely (see my essay I Prine For Prine). For comfort, I will have a ritual, something closer to an obsession, and that is hiding the peaches. I’ll buy lots of peaches: white, yellow, donut. I’ll buy them from the tiny family orchard just up River Road, the one with the illegal sign reading PEACHES, and I’ll buy them from Solebury Orchard and from Manoff Market Gardens, two local family outfits locked in mortal farm-stand combat for shoppers of exquisite fruit, fine preserves, and gorgeous local flowers.
When I come home, my husband will ask why I’ve bought another ½ bushel of peaches when there are peaches all over the house, but I have given up explaining. The season lasts eight weeks, at most. Supplies must be steady. There is no reason to ration. A peach is God’s gift to the mouth. It is to be eaten by hand, juice dripping. And it must be dead ripe.
So I hide the peaches. Because when I see an unripe peach with a bite out of it, I seethe. It reminds me of picking melons, of swishing my hands through the scratchy melon vines, of finding a perfect Ambrosia or Sweet ’n’ Early and turning it over to discover a big old groundhog bite: the melon is not ripe, and never will ripen, and it can’t be eaten or sold and has to be chucked into the waterway or given to the chickens. A death too soon. A monstrous waste. But the woodchuck is innocent; she has to eat! My too-young-to-know-better kids and poorly-informed guests, on the other hand, have plenty to eat without eating unripe peaches.
I’ll gather my trays quickly and quietly to avoid detection: the old wooden ones, the one with the roses, the turquoise Fiestaware. I’ll lay the peaches in one layer (always one) and stash the trays. I’ll put trays on the shelf above my sundresses, in drawers, on top of the old piece of furniture where we keep the mittens, and if I have to, I’ll sneak into the guest rooms too, but this July, they will be empty. I am also hiding the fruit from myself; I have sinned by eating too soon. I’ll try to wait two days, then make the rounds. I’ll choose ripe peaches and bring them to the butcher block, where the household knows fruit is fair game. I won’t care how many peaches anyone eats in one day, or even in one sitting.
Doling out peaches in ripe-order is something I can control. I like that very much.
Sometimes I blow it. I’m the squirrel who buries too many nuts; my brain is too small to keep track of the trays, and I find the peaches overripe and squishy. If they’re not furry with mold, I say a little prayer, forgive myself, and make crumble.
Peach Crumble
½ - ¾ c flour (more if the fruit is very juicy) and perhaps a handful of whole rolled oats
4 c fruit, cut up and loosely packed
½ c or 1 stick cold unsalted butter
¾ c brown and/or white sugars, total
fresh lemon rind
Butter a glass or ceramic dish. Layer the fruit, sprinkle with lemon zest and a little of the sugar, and mix gently. Cut up the butter, mix by hand with the flour and the rest of the sugar, and sprinkle that on the fruit. Bake at 350F until bubbly, 20-30 minutes.
And to this very day we've been livin' our way
And here is the reason why
We blew up our TV, threw away our paper
Went to the country, built us a home
Had a lot of children, fed 'em on peaches
They all found Jesus on their own
— John Prine
