They may not be from my tree, but they're still local, their fuzz tender, their fragrance intoxicating. I've got a six-pound bag by my side, destined to become jam this weekend.
There are many schools of jam. Some believe in leaving the fruit as close to jiggly raw as possible, letting high doses of sugar and pectin do the trick.
Me? I love the reverse, boiling pure peaches (and less sugar) almost to the point of caramelization, into the 240 degree range. Only then do I ladle the goo into sterilized jars and give them a proper hot-water bath.
It's a different kind of jam, thicker, visually less reminiscent of the fruit itself. But the flavor knocks you over with a great big POW, which is exactly what I like on a dreary February morning when I need a little sunshine on my toast.
Up next, we're counting down to Concord grapes. Have you seen any in your market yet?