Ripe, Sweet Fruit

When I was teaching liberal arts classes at the New England Culinary Institute, I read a book with my students called Epitaph for a Peach. It was written by David Mas Masumoto, a second generation peach farmer from California. One of the students who read the book with me, a young man named Michael, was from the same area as Masumoto’s farm and, after completing his six-month internship back home, he returned, with the rest of his class, for graduation. I have a vivid memory of Michael running toward me that day. He had gathered his classmates before me and assembled us on the sidewalk outside the inn. Then, with great care, he pulled a peach out of a brown paper bag. He had held the bag on his lap for his entire cross-country journey, hoping the peaches would make it to our hands unbruised. As he explained the story, he pulled out another peach, and another, and handed them out. They were the very peaches we’d all read about together--Masumoto's peaches. They were softball-sized and heavy with juice, and we ate them right there in the middle of the celebration, each of us hinged forward, trying in vain not to get juice all over our clothes. It was a ripe and delicious moment that comes to mind vividly even now. 

Slicing peaches in my kitchen the other night, for a peach and raspberry pie I baked for visiting friends, I was struck by how many lives we live in this one short life, and how chronological time gets somehow reconfigured in the scope of our memories. My culinary school job seems like a lifetime ago, but I can still taste that peach on my tongue. On the other hand, it feels like only a year or two has passed since Sam and I built this house, yet recently, driving down our road, I noticed all the neighbors’ dogs seemed suddenly old. When did their muzzles all go white? Thinking it over, I realized: we’ve been running this gauntlet of dogs for seven years now. And that means I’ve lived longer in this house than any other place I’ve lived. For someone who has craved a sense of rootedness all her life, this milestone feels meaningful. The memories I make here daily feel ripe and sweet too.

There is a spot up the road where a microburst blew down a section of woods a few years ago, leaving behind a sunny open place that has produced a seemingly endless raspberry patch. There are more perfect berries than you could ever pick. Standing in the rain, filling a two quart bowl the other day, the savory-sweet taste of raspberries brought me back, as it always does, to the patch behind my grandparents’ house on the lake--the patch we would pass before going down the stairs to the dock. Eating them, I am young again, my sister even younger, and my mother and grandmother are nearby. Somehow they come back to me here the more this place becomes home.

And home for me now is as much about Quinn as it is me. The memories we create here will be what she carries with her into her future. I want them to be sweet and just right. I want them to be happy, as mine are. 

Last week I took her on her first hike. I have hiked many places, with many kids, and I have loved each experience--even the cold, wet, scary ones, in the end. But hiking with my own kid was something entirely different. Following the advice of a friend, I took her on a day when we had nothing else to do, so we could take as long as we needed to. I gave her the choice of going to school, or going on a girls’ adventure with me, and I packed a picnic to eat at the top of Sunset Ledge. The hike is just over a mile each way, which seems long considering Quinn barely makes it to the end of our driveway most days before she asks for a “hug-carry.” Fortunately, when we arrived at the trailhead, the mountain-magic kicked in: Quinn motored up the trail, scrambling up and over rocks and roots, and was determined to do it all on her own. I followed behind her, most of the time with my hand held out just behind her back. If I accidentally touched her, she scolded me, “I’ve got it, Mom! I can do it myself.” Halfway up, she said, “I love it here, Mom! Thanks for taking me.” I smiled the whole way, totally unable to contain how proud I was of her.

A couple of nights later, we took her out in the canoe for an evening paddle. We hadn’t gotten her in a canoe for any length of time since the first time we took her when she was ten months old. As a baby, and since, she’s refused to wear a life jacket, but after three years, I’ve learned a few tricks. I allowed her to pick out her own new life jacket. She picked a hot pink one with a shark fin on the back because, she said, “it’s funny.” Fortunately it also seems to float. 

I also packed a lot of snacks for the ride, and padded out her seat on the bottom of the boat.  The night of our paddle on Blueberry Lake, Quinn told us, “Hiking and canoeing are my life!” Given what the world is like, given the chaos and the clutter, I would love to think this will somehow prove true. For now, I’m savoring the sweetness that is, trying to make this version of my life last as long as possible.