I like peaches,
they’re my favourite fruit.
But you always have to eat them
in your least-favourite suit.
Poetry! Maybe I’ll start each of my diary entries in this way from now on. Tune in next week to see if I stay true to this dream, idly cooked though it was in the fires of peach-fuelled ambition.
Yes, I’ve been eating peaches. I am drunk on their nectar. I am surfing the body electrolyte. I’m peach-stoned. I’ve been juicin’. I’m baked in a pie. Any more? I’m canned. No, that one’s not specific enough. Delete.
Seriously though. [applies stern face]. Peaches really are my favourite fruit. Maybe they’re my favourite thing full-stop. How can something like a peach grow on a tree of all things? When I eat a peach I find myself thinking, “how do they make these?” Such fine craftsmanship.
From velveteen shell,
to lesioned pit,
’tis the dandy prune,
who thinks he’s it.
There I go again. When I took to this page I never thought I’d be moved to poetry. I just wanted to write about peaches and my enduring love for them. But that’s peaches for you. They inspire verse. Truly, they are the musical fruit.
Note to self: continue writing poetry, learn piano, co-opt moniker “the musical fruit”. Great posters.
Reader, would you believe me were I to say I could each peaches all day long, surfing eternal on the syrupy rush? It seems unlikely, I know, but they are the drug choice for we polymaths. And for wee polymaths, I imagine, too.
I’d step over any number of dying relatives to reach a peach. My curse is peach addiction; my blessing, a good stride.
To a peach,
I would reach
‘cross mum and dad
with gangly leg-reach.
Sometimes, I have a mind to combine my love of peaches with my other true love but you’d be surprised how much scorn is poured on fruit eaters in the royal box. It’s because of the slurping, I suppose. But I say it can’t be helped and if you’re offended by the sight of a syrupy tuxedo, keep your opera glasses pointed firmly at the stage. Trichome? Tricho-you, buddy.
In Scotland we praise
the spud, neep, and bunnet,
But when I go shopping,
I just pick up a punnet.
A bit far-fetch that one, perhaps, but I don’t see you breaking out into spontaneous rhyme based on berries. Besides, when you think “punnet”, where else are you supposed to go? Oh, wait.
As every fool knows,
it resides at the summit
of the fruit hierarchy,
so let’s have a punnet.
Peaches are the only fruit to lead to such creativity. Did the Stranglers themselves not sing about the pleasure of “walking on the beaches, looking at the peaches”? Why just look at the peaches though, chaps? Sink your teeth in.
You can have a lot of fun with a peach. If you know someone who’s never eaten one, poor soul, tell them that the peach must be peeled. Better still, tell them it must be shaved.
I was always saddened by Merill Nisker’s tendency to “Fuck the Pain Away.” Why find solace in being saucy, Miss Nisker, when you could so easily be juicy? The clue was in front of you all the time.
Perhaps I could be the official product ambassador for peaches. “The Peach!” I would say to everyone who’d listen. “Shits all over a nectarine. Plums? Fuck off.”
It’s not all fun and games though. One word: stalks. You can rarely extract the stalk before eating the peach as you would with, say, an apple. And you can’t eat the stalk like you might with a strawberry. Eating a peach stalk is like chewing an antique earplug. Not pleasant.
And why so velvety? Is it because they’re Sylvanian Families eggs? I’d be surprised if they weren’t, and so would you, dear reader. Typically, we eat peaches when they’re fresh and therefore unfertilized so all we experience is the sweet, orange albumen. But dive in a day too late and you’ll find… parts.
Forget it. I’ve gone right off them.
They truly are
the devil’s meat.