The peaches are ripe. Red Havens and other varieties are flooding into the markets, begging to be touched, to be sniffed, to be squeezed . . . gently. We comply, picking up the warm fruit, feeling its give, anticipating what the flesh will taste like. The juice runs over our hands as the peach is peeled.
In no time the peaches will find their way into cobblers, pies, and fruit shortcakes. They will crown scoops of ice cream. They will be poached with rum and brown sugar, eaten as is, even set on fire in ambitious kitchens.
Thank goodness there are such wonderful fruits to be sacrificed to our pleasure, reminding us of our privileged place in the natural world.