The summer of the motherf*ing peaches

Few know the sapphic glory of a peach tree in full swing of summer. Nor did we, until recently. The innocuous-looking tree in our backyard that has sat dormant the past two summers blessed us this year with a bonanza of peaches, mortgaging its own livelihood as it bent its branches down to the ground under the weight of juicy, fleshy tokens. Just when we thought there could be no more peaches, the leaves would part to reveal more peaches blooming into being.

During the first week of Peach Bounty 2010, I made:

peach pie

upside-down peach-almond cake

peach cobbler

peach jam

more peach jam

under new label: "Tight, juice peaches" jam

The good fortune would never end, it seemed. Peaches were shoveled into yoghurt, hidden in fruit salads, stuffed into compotes and salads. Upon returning from New York on Monday night, however, I found our winning peach tree had degenerated into a rude, reeking teen, intent on throwing its own filthy fruit onto the grass below, its branches sullied by wasps, squirrels and bugs. Over the past week I have shoveled bags upon bags of rotten peaches into the hopper, careful to keep the retching to a minimum. Still more peaches ripen by the day, flipping me off as they commit seppuku onto the pavement.

At this stage I can well understand the malaise of those who were brought up in, say, an island paradise, and hate sand, hate coconuts, hate the fucking turquoise water. I should very much like to script a short cautionary film about the faraway citizens of Cottoncandy County, blighted by sugary fluff in their homes, in their beds, in their minds. It's like Brewster's Millions, only with peaches.