White peaches

Is there anything more ephemeral and more sensuous than a ripe white peach at the peak of its perfume and about-to-be-bruised-ability?

No. There isn't.

I admit: I have in the past snuck white peaches from California at my greengrocer on Atlantic Avenue. That is a jailable offence in the local food world. I have pureed those Saturn peaches for Bellinis, and they are not bad. Last year they were perfect, with a clear, pure flavour, but this year I detect a vague woolliness.

But today I walked past the Borough Hall Farmers' market on the way home from the subway and I strolled the stands, buying perfectly ripe white peaches at one, and yellow loose-pit peaches at another.

The white peach stand was offering free samples, not just slices, but entire fruit, and people had stopped like sticky bees around the tables, standing there with silly smiles on their faces, arching spasmodically away from the juice running over their hands onto the flagstones. One man testified, This is the the most, theeeee MOST phenomenal peach I have EVAH tasted! That was a yellow peach. I ate two as soon as I got home, standing over the kitchen sink. He was right. I wish my mother were here. These are, somehow, American peaches - as though they were invented here. Essence of the best. Tonic and totem against the worst.

But. The white peaches...

The second best thing you can do to a white peach - after wolfing one au naturel, of course - is to peel it carefully. Put it in a bowl. Pour chilled prosecco over it.

Eat it with a spoon, or, as I did after two mouthfuls, your fingers.

Dip the soft fruit it back into the cold wine so that a film coats each velvety, deeply sweet and juice-rich bite of peach.

Tonight? White peach soup, with Viognier. An experiment.