Time has slowed down at our house. The cute guy’s Dad is visiting and the beauty is he has nothing to be in a hurry for. He naps a lot. He’s 86, plays Scrabble with me and together we worry over the production of ethanol and alternative fuels in America. And then the whole house takes another nap.
We also talk about food because, well, because I always talk about food. He’s been telling me stories. His Grandmother would make oil soup with onions, noodles, parsley and olive oil. “It was good,” he says laughing because my face is skewed in disbelief.
He remembered buying peaches in Auburn on his summer trips to Tahoe where he was raised. “And then we’d stop in Tahoe City and buy cream.” He paused, remembering, a new smile in his eyes. He looked like he could still taste the combination.
I stopped because I recognized something new. I know taste is linked to memory of a place. What I ate is most often the first thing I remember. His memory of the peaches revealed another layer though. It wasn’t only a memory of food and place but also of season.
His annual trips to Tahoe as an adult were in the summer, when the Auburn peaches were in season. Not peaches brought from somewhere else to Auburn but the peaches grown in Auburn. The year was charted not only in time and place, but season and taste too. I've not noticed that before.
This morning at the farmers’ market I bought a generous bag of yellow peaches from Parlier. And stopped at the store for a bottle of fresh cream from West Marin. For the first time all weekend I hurried, to get home, unpack the car, to quick get in the kitchen. The peaches could hardly be peeled fast enough.
Once on the table though, peaches spilled with too much cold cream, I slowed. Still the peaches and cream were gone too fast. And then the whole house took another nap.
We're going to remember this summer visit.
1 day ago