Savoring

My Baltimore friends have started making lists of "places Megarita needs to see before she leaves." Because these lists are often discussed at a club or a bar when we're all savoring the cheap cheap beers of this town (a huge thing I'll miss!), many of the places have been places like "best late night pizza spots" and "best place to eat pizza after midnight."

After blinking at the hot, hot sunshine this morning, blessing my sense to turn on the A/C late last night, I got out of bed, read my paper, and decided to take a run down to one of my personal favorite places in Baltimore: the Sunday Farmer's Market. I recalled that it was early July, so no strawberries, but my favorite things should be in full bloom: tomatoes and peaches.

Praising my cleverness and my timing--it was only 9:30 am still, not too late although quite tardy for marketing--I threw on a tank top and shorts (it's mid-Atlantic hot today) and strolled the mile or so down to the strange location of this market. It's underneath the highway. You can hear the cars above roaring and rattling while you're standing in line for BBQ, fresh doughnuts, Thai food, and fresh squeezed OJ. The market was a madhouse. I had forgotten it was a holiday weekend. People were definitely making appearances. Lines everywhere. Plants, herbs, cheeses, leafy greens, fruits, and a guy who was selling corn out of the bed of a truck. I scooted around the loop counterclockwise and beat many of the crowds. Within 10 minutes of careful and speedy shopping I had tomatoes (I buy the goofy looking ones that smell good--tend to be especially tasty. . .I should apply this strategy to dating, perhaps!), blueberries, and, of course, PEACHES.

There are few things that make me happier than peaches. (Aat this time I'd like to ask people whose names sound like "craven" to just not make any comments that are "peach"-related.) I bought a lot. More than I may be able to eat, but I think I can make a go of it. I could live on these fruits. I love a fresh tomato, and fresh strawberries or baby peas are really amazing, but good peaches are a blessing from god. Even apricots cannot compete.

I made a quick stop at the store to pick up accessories for my fruitage--the correct cereals, cream, good cheeses--and fled back to the cool environs of the Nest. I was carefully unpacking my purchases when I went into some sort of fruit fugue and wolfed down three of the peaches while standing over the sink. I barely even washed them. Just got a whiff of their perfect ripeness and bit down. I think I might have gone into a trance or something, because the next thing I remember was standing in my kitchen with a dripping chin and three pits in my hand.

One of the best things about my move to Georgia, I now realize, is that I'm returning to the motherland for peaches. And boiled peanuts. And pecans. And peaches. There's a farmer's market in the lot behind my place in my new town. I should be hitting it in time to catch a few more weeks of perfection. It almost makes it all worthwhile. Succulent sunshine.