Summer of the Peach

I do declayah, this is the Summah of the Peach!

I declared last Summer the Summer of Country, but Kenny Chesney and Keith Urban and all the Good Ol' Boys done ruirned that, this year. (If only every country song could be this good. This kind of country music makes me wish I could say "won't" instead of "want". But I cain't. I just cain't.)

The Summer of the Peach began with Glow Haven...

My friend Carla, whom I now call Saint Carla, showed me the ropes of canning peaches.

We thought it best for Canning Day photos to focus only on the hands, baby. Only on the hands.

(Have we ever talked about my double-jointed thumbs?)

We put us up some swell peaches, and we didn't even blow the place up.

Thank you, Saint Carla!

And I'll surely thank you again, come frost January when I find myself wrapped burrito-style in my ugly blue blanket with peach juice all a'dribble.

The Summer of the Peach, coupled with my recent, tragic bout of snuck-up-on-me lactose intolerance, found me many a'morning enjoying this.

Who am I kidding... I always had two.

I've also become a big believer in this. In fact, I started a fan page for "homemade" Jiffy waffles with a drizzle of syrup and a chopped up peach on Facebook. (Or was that just a dream?)

This dumb thing was a big flop. I like to call it the Woeful Peach Omelette.

Many apologies, friends with the beautiful, new baby whom I served this to. It sounded so good on paper...

Incidentally, the Summer of the Peach also included a trip down meatball lane.

But that is really neither here, nor there.

Because this post was supposed to be all about the peaches. And as Calvin would say, "Speaking of peaches...." He's a big fan of the "speaking of..." transition, you know. Last night I used the word "speak" in conversation and he interrupted to say, "Speaking of speaking, I need to speak to you." And then we both doubled over in laughter. He surprised even himself with his ridiculosity.

Where are the peaches, Lady? This was supposed to be about peaches!

Alright, alright.

I'll leave you with two final peach tales. One is happy. The other? So very sad.

First the good news: Peaches and Cream Shortcake. I invented this, ya'lls. Jiffy shortcakes, sliced up, sugared down peaches, with a dollop of cream cheese whipped with powdered sugar, vanilla and a splash of OJ. Mmm Hmmm.

And the bad news: Paula Deen's peach cobbler. I had such high hopes for this, and it went so terribly, terribly awry. I think my self-rising flour had up and kicked the bucket. All's I know is, wasn't nothing rising up in my kitchen. What I had on my hands was an open-faced peach pie with an exorbitantly thick, leaden crust. It was alright warm, and in a pinch. But once those peaches cooled off, it went downhill, but quick. Next time around, I'll be sure to bleach my teeth, pop in my electric blue contact lenses, and fluff my white wig first. Maybe that was the problem.

Many apologies, family members with the beautiful, new baby whom I served this to. It sounded so good on paper...

Since this Summer of the Peach has been so overwhelmingly good to me, I have made the executive decision to end on a high note. Fresh peach cupcakes with brown shuga frosting.

In a word? Salivicious.

Juicily yours,
Madam Peach