SYNDICATED COLUMNIST
If George Washington wanted to be my favorite president, then instead of offing a cherry tree, he would have chopped down every peach orchard in the United States.
I used to think peaches were delicious fruit. I used to say they were a pleasant color. I used to believe that nothing else worked as well in peach cobbler.
But that was then. Today, I demand that all peaches be consigned to the compost heap of history.
Like any innocent child, I started out liking peaches. Then my mother brought home a particular basket. Inside were twenty peaches, give or take a hundred.
“The farmers’ market had extra,” she said, beaming. “And they’re in season, so they must be eaten fresh. They’ll go bad by the end of the week.”
I did some quick mental math. I am not known for swiftness of calculation, but I saw a definite blocker to my progress.
“To finish this by the end of the week, I have to eat five peaches a day,” I said.
“You like peaches,” my mother replied.
“Not that much,” I parried.
“You like peaches,” she insisted. And that was that. So began the slog.
Downing a peach for breakfast was easy enough. Sometimes I could manage another one with lunch. But every day there were more. I swear they multiplied in the basket.
I tried to sneak them into other foods. Peaches can be disguised pretty well in salsa. I worked another half into a corn and tomato salad.
But lo and behold, the evening rolled around, and I was still three peaches behind pace. And that was on a good day.
There was no sneaky way to get rid of them. The dog wasn’t interested. And I couldn’t let good food go to waste.
Besides, even if I did want to bury them or set them on fire or hide them in the depths of the garbage can, my mother would know. She spent a lot of time with me in the kitchen.
Days crept by. I began to run out of foods to pair the peaches with. When I tell you that I seriously considered adding peach to baked cod, you will understand my desperation.
At last, I had an epiphany. My neighbor’s gutter was not too far from my kitchen window. If I lobbed them right, the last few peaches would disappear.
I just had to figure out how to do it without Mom looking.
Fortunately, a friend of mine was in town for the weekend. I called him up and explained my troubles. He suggested a game of tennis.
It was too good of an excuse. My spirits rose as I sailed out the door, tennis racket in one hand, two peaches in the other.
I walked around the side of the house, out of sight of the kitchen window. My friend was there, waiting.
With a serve that would have made Serena Williams proud, I shot a peach onto my neighbor’s roof. My friend did the same. His bounced off the chimney.
I snatched it from the ground and sent it up again. This time it stayed. We went off to the courts feeling pretty proud of ourselves.
When I returned home, there was another basket on the kitchen table. Inside were twenty red-orange orbs, give or take a hundred.
“What are those?” I cried, stabbing at them with my racket.
“There’s no need to yell,” sniffed Mom. “I know you like nectarines.”
Copyright 2024 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.
Alexandra Paskhaver is a software engineer and writer. Both jobs require knowing where to stick semicolons, but she’s never quite; figured; it; out. For more information, check out her website at https:// apaskhaver.github.io.
