Mission successful. The blonde sent me out on a hunt for fresh peaches for a pie she’s baking for a charity auction. Can’t get them any fresher than this. Farmer’s wife told me these were picked this morning. My promised reward: a pie all my own. Farm stand. Along Route 208. Ulster County. July 28, 2010.
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Pie, like beer and the prose of Terry Pratchett and jazz and Christina Hendricks, is one of the fundamental proofs that God really does love us and wants us to quit being stupid humans and sit down and fill ourselves with something happy. Its simple, spherical perfection cannot be compassed by a mere pan. And the Redhead is especially partial to the peach varieties. Me, here in one of the berry capitals of the planet (the Willamette Valley), I'm waiting for the marionberries to come fully ripe.
OT, that Cary Grant post a while back put me on a Stanley Donen kick, which I recommend. So far I'm through "Kismet" (yes that was him), "Charade," "Arabesque," and "Two For the Road." Good stuff. Been too busy lately to say thank you kindly for the email, which was (business aside) churlish of me. So indeed, thanks.
Posted by: El Jefe | Wednesday, July 28, 2010 at 06:29 PM
Mmm, peach pie. D made us a peach-blueberry pie the other night, seasoned with mace and nutmeg, and oh boy is it tasty.
Posted by: Rana | Wednesday, July 28, 2010 at 08:26 PM
Rana,
Ah, mace -- one of the essential somethin'-somethin's of pie making. I bet it's tasty.
Posted by: El Jefe | Wednesday, July 28, 2010 at 11:43 PM