Travesty

Meta Cranky has perpetrated a crime against botany. She has transformed the peach, one of nature's most beautiful creations, into something resembling the color and consistency of Oliver Twist's gruel.

The problem arises from inventory control. The ridiculous windfall of native plums has transformed the celebration of Seasonal Fruit into something approaching a work-release sentence. After the fruits of the Crankies' plum excursion were processed, MC was ready for a respite, but Seasonal Fruit was only tuning up. Second Brother's peach tree needed attention, and a half-hour's picking produced enough for a perfectly lovely cobbler and several happy bowls of jewel-tone slices at the breakfast table. MC estimated that she would get her groove back while the apples ripened. Then, foolishly, she left the house. When she returned, there were five (5) gallons of peaches on her porch, lovingly picked by Second Brother.

D(elivery)-Day Plus One: Texas Friend arrives and peels for an hour, producing another bowl of peachy perfection. What remains, however, is approximately 4.5 gallons of Second Brother's peaches. This particular product is in all ways delicious, but also labor intensive; the fruit is small, and most of the little darlings contain a worm or two. The Crankies are no closer to containment than BP after its first lame attempt at capping the Deepwater Horizon.
D-Day Plus 2: MC manages to blanche a dishpan full of peaches during C2's playdate and produce an Incredibly Forgiving Peach Cake. Tres bon! And yet quel dommage!  because those peaches are getting surly. Their worms are growing. Their bruises are blooming. MC thinks that the balance of power has subtly shifted in her relationship with Seasonal Fruit. Second Brother stops by and asks, "Shouldn't you be grinding up those peaches or something?" MC offloads fruit to Mother of Playdate.
D-Day Plus 3: As Seasonal Fruit becomes increasingly demanding, MC no longer has time for that blanching business. She slices up what she's got, produces another Incredibly Forgiving Peach Cake, covers the remaining peaches with sugar, and slams them in the fridge. What could possibly go wrong? Two waves of visitors arrive and the conversation happily takes another turn.
D-Day Plus 4: C1 and C2 look quizzically at the browned mass their mother has placed on the breakfast table. "Did you get the wrong bowl?" asks C1, diplomatically.
Evening of D-Day Plus 4: MC attempts peach remediation. Surely some jamming action will revive those underperforming peaches, she thinks: Pectin, a few square yards of sugar, and presto! However, MC's relationship with these particular peaches had gone to a place where no food stylist can salvage it. C1 walks into the kitchen during the botched attempt and looks on with unfeigned admiration at the effort. "The peach smoosh!" she exclaims. Then, realistically, she asks, "Have you tried it?" No, MC admits, she's rather busy with the draconian Sure Jell instructions. C1 dubiously tries a spoonful of jam and offers this searing assessment: "It looks nasty, but it tastes OK."


In her final review, C1 couldn't decide if whether the peach jam looked more like haggis or head cheese. Either one is so far removed from the original blushing globules as to be almost a different species of flora or fauna. A generous person might call the product a golden brown. But residents of the reality-based community could never call it peachy.
--MC