Richard Olney’s “Simple French Food” is a beautiful book, but written in a bitingly straightforward fashion with no sympathy for your lack of skills.
A few weeks ago, a friend of Ian’s sent him a care package of a dozen Georgia peaches. Wrapped in thin, crinkly sheafs of white paper, nestled in individual foam nooks, the bounty of summer fruit looked just like the emoji, sun-gold, fragrant and chipper in their little homes. Upon opening the package, I couldn’t help myself. In a moment of animal lust, I grabbed one of the plump, floral-perfumed fruit and devoured it over the sink, sticky sweet juice dripping slowly down my chin and neck. Was it peach season then? Is it peach season now? A month ago, Kim Severson of the New York Times wrote a delightful piece on a debate among Southerners and writers about the perfect time to eat a peach: “Kathleen Purvis, the Southern food writer most likely to let you know when you have something wrong, made a peach declaration on Facebook a couple of weeks ago. Peaches, she said, should never be eaten before the Fourth of July.” I love the charm of this easy-to-remember rule, even …
There’s nothing quite like a fragrant bushel of peaches at the Union Square Greenmarket to start the mouthparts salivating. For me, cravings are often triggered by something as simple as smelling these bright, ripe stone fruits from 15 ft. away, when shopping or even eating was the furthest thing from my mind. Even so, I knew immediately: I must eat some peaches, and fast.
I live in Manhattan, where life ain’t cheap. Master of the obvious, right? While I love keeping quality ingredients in my apartment, sometimes I have to *gasp* buy precooked, frozen stuff to eat, because A) I don’t have time and B) it’s cheaper. Lest I be accused of some Sandra Lee “Semi-homemade” BS, let’s come out and say: whatever, yo. I can’t afford to eat sustainably, locally, trendily all of the time. It’s too hard. It’s too expensive. It takes too much damn time.