I have never tasted peach pie.
Artist Friend was horrified when I told him that. And his brother even volunteered to make me a peach pie if I’m ever in Motor City. When I go visit my friend PoetryeWoman, who happens to live in Motor City, I fully intend to show up at the house of Artist Friend’s brother and demand a pie. The fact that I’ve only met Motor City Brother once will not stop me. If his pie crust is anything like his brother’s, well, then it will be worth violating any kind of etiquette about how well you need to know someone before you show up on their doorstep demanding pie.
The only pie I ever make is apple pie. Since I live near apple orchards of all kinds, it makes sense on cool autumn days to make apple pie. And I like apple pie because it’s not as mushy or sickly sweet as most other fruit pies. Especially if you use tart, just-picked apples.
This week, though, I passed baskets of ripe peaches at a fruit stand and actually got as far as thinking about making a peach pie, on the slim chance that Artist Friend is right about how great it tastes. I’ve been on kind of a cooking spree ever since seeing the movie Julie and Julia so the timing seemed right. But then I remembered how damned hot my house has been this week: well over 90 degrees for several days in a row, with the kind of humidity that makes it feel like I’m moving underwater. And the thought of turning on the oven changed my mind.
We can just eat the peaches one at a time, plain. A ripened peach is a fine treat on a hot day. The pie will have to wait until the next time Artist Friend visits.
