When it comes to peach desserts, I am finally gaining ground. We’ve eaten countless batches of our much-loved peach cobbler recipe, and as of a couple weeks ago, I have a peach crisp I’m satisfied with. (I have yet, however, to bite into a peach pie that is anything other than bland.)

I used to make my peach crisp by slicing peaches and then capping them with a butter-oat topping. It was fine, but in a pallid, this-needs-ice cream sort of way. Dressing up the peaches (à la the cobbler method) goes a long way in creating juicy, flavorful fruit. In other words, sugar makes it better. This is a dessert. If you want something healthy, just eat the peach.

My other great discovery is—and this might strike some of you as a no-brainer—chop the peaches, don’t slice them. I used to slice my peaches as I do apples for pie. But then I’d end up with a slippery slice of peach on my spoon and no topping. Or all topping and no peach. It was awkward. And disappointing. Chopped peaches make the eating deliciously convenient. I’m not even joking.

Peach Crisp

If I’m feeling pious, I sometimes dial back the butter for the topping—maybe 14 tablespoons instead of 16. I rarely feel pious.

for the fruit:
8-10 cups chopped peaches
2/3 cup brown sugar
2 tablespoons flour
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
juice of one lemon (or about 2 tablespoons)

Stir together the brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, and salt and toss with the peaches. Tumble the fruit into a 9×12 baking dish and sprinkle with the lemon.

for the crisp:
1 cup quick oats
1 cup rolled oats
1 cup flour
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup butter

Combine all the ingredients in a large bowl. Using your fingers, mix well until all the butter is incorporated.

Arrange the clumpy oat mixture over the fruit.

Bake the crisp at 350 degrees for 30-40 minutes, or until the topping is golden brown and the fruit is bubbling madly. Serve warm, with milk or vanilla ice cream.

This same time, years previous: Bezaleel scenes, the quotidian (8.27.14), fresh tomato salad, buttery basil pesto, and odds and ends.

All day long—all the time, really—I’m bombarded with ideas. There’s the slew of NPR shows I like to listen to when I have a morning in the kitchen. There are the blogs, Facebook articles, and magazines. There are the books. There are the sermons, classes, and conversations.

So many ideas, so many thoughts. Some of them lap at my brain like the ocean tickles a sunbather’s toes, but others are like giant waves, begging to be played in. Most of the time, I stay on metaphorical dry ground, enjoying the crashing wetness from the safety of my towel. Once in a while, I turn playful, jumping into the foamy spray, yelling and getting soaked. Rarely do I actually make something of the waves (that are actually ideas). Which, to carry this analogy through, I guess would be … a friendship with pod of dolphins? A meal from seaweed? A driftwood couch? Homemade sea salt?

Whatever.

The point is, I do a lot more input than output, idea-wise. Sometimes I feel like I’m missing out by not fully processing—making something of—all the ideas at my disposal.

Not that all my reflections are worth expounding upon, of course. For example, take the eggs. Just this morning I read about someone’s intense gratefulness and delight over the deliciousness of bright-yellow, homegrown chicken eggs, and I thought:

Bah. There’s not that much special about homegrown chicken eggs. I can’t taste a huge difference. Besides, eggs aren’t really my thing. I mean, I like ‘em, but I prefer the buttered toast that’s served up alongside.


And what’s so great about homegrown stuff anyway? The cherry tomatoes from Costco were far tastier then the red ones we grew. WHICH ARE NOW ROTTING IN THE GARDEN BECAUSE I DON’T CARE. In fact, I’m EAGER for them to rot themselves into oblivion so I’ll have an excuse to eat store-bought cherry tomatoes again SO SUE ME. 


Sure, homegrown food tastes better (usually, ha), but many times, the difference is all in the head. The brain part of the head, not the tongue part.

(I do believe I just handed over my credentials as a gardener and food blogger. I should probably be impeached or something.)

See what I mean? All this from one measly phrase about eggs.

It’s probably best I don’t detail all my reflections. Still, I’d like to push myself to think things through just a little more thoroughly. Package it up presentable-like.

Unlike this post which my husband says makes no sense whatsoever. But I’m posting it anyway because it’s all I’ve got.

This same time, years previous: atop the ruins, on not rushing it, chocolate malted milk frosting, and my new favorite fruit.

This same time, years previous: tomato jam, basic oatmeal muffins, earthy ponderations, part three, homemade butter, and starting a new baby.