Peaches are forever associated with superlatives, be it with regard to a ravishingly beautiful person, an exotic vehicle or a perfect uppercut. The expression of this perfection is often quantified in terms of “peachiness”. Having skin like a peach is a compliment that oozes “peachiness” in its allusion to perfection, as does the suggestion that a pair, of whatever they may be go, together like” peaches and cream”. When I hear my neighbour say, “dis donc, Roger, t’as la pêche aujourd’hui!”, it’s clear that my beaming smile has overwhelmed them or, as is the usual case, it’s clear that they’re being ironic. I love peaches and they haven’t arrived yet; well, not in France. The peaches that have arrived, in the shops here, are from Spain and don’t have the unmistakeable scent and colour of the perfect peach as they’ve been dragged into ripeness by man rather than by mother nature. Still, there was no resisting them for this pillar of weakness. Even an “unpeachy” peach can be made ambrosial by the addition of sugar, lemon juice, honey and heat. These peaches were split and pitted: the hollows were filled with lemon juice and demerara sugar and the whole thing napped with good honey before being put under a very hot grill until they looked “peachy” enough to eat.
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