The sight of fresh peaches takes me back to the 1950s when my grandmother was working in her kitchen.
My dad, with his new Bell and Howell movie camera, focused on her in her work apron, peeling ripe peaches and putting them into a canning jar. She laughed and ate the last slice herself. Ever after, he used the reverse feature of the projector for this segment: the fruit in the jar and piece in her mouth reconstituted, recovered its swirl of skin, and reverted neatly to one piece in her hand. No matter how many times we watched it, we always howled.
There is nothing like a fresh Indiana peach. I know Michigan and Georgia boast about theirs and rightly so, but the flats we bought from Doud’s Orchard in Wabash County were lovely this year. Besides eating them fresh and freezing some for later on cereal, I made the annual batch of scrumptious jam.
Despite the 2:1 ratio of sugar to fruit, there has to be some nutritional value there. From the fair amount of Vitamin C in the juice of three lemons, maybe?
I savor peach jam on toast in the winter with its faint trace of the memory of Grandma’s steamy late summer kitchen, the root cellar in which she stored her fruit and vegetables, and the delicious thoughts of days gone by.