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Peaches are a great source of dismay for me. I am convinced that the last good peach I ate was consumed in my childhood in 2001 or 2002 somewhere near Kisela Voda in Skopje, Macedonia. Most likely, I had picked it from a neighbor’s tree on the way from one grandmother’s house to another – it was sun-drenched, warm, and fluffy. I would have wiped the fluff off my shirt because I’d learned the hard way that the down would tingle otherwise. (So taken with the softness of my very first peach-off-the-branch, I snuggled against my face just to see the sting of trichomes on my cheek.) I doubt I would give myself a second thought about the looming Danger the fruit made status as I bit into juicy velvety skin, savoring the symphony on my taste buds as I strolled on as the juice ran down my chin and hands.
The perfect peach was hardly a rare commodity back then. Although my family lived in the capital of the city, our neighborhood was more orchard than big city, and in summer the dirt roads that served as roads were often littered with stone fruits in various stages of decay. It seemed to me that the only people who actually bought peaches in the market were usually friends who lived in the skyscrapers or the ones in charge of bringing groceries to old retiree Baba, who was too crippled with arthritis to travel to Zelen Pazar yourself.
I don’t know what happened to peaches. I don’t know if it was the arrival of the western-style supermarket serving a newly capitalized (and capitalist) workforce in need of convenience. Perhaps it was the succession of neighbors who started to fell their fruit trees and preferred grass to groves, bushes of flowers to food. My father spent years creating his own manicured emerald green Gatsby Lawn, all at the expense of the tart cherries, apricots, and wild roses that had survived decades in the front yard with little company. So the beloved peaches of my childhood were nowhere to be found. Still, I kept hope alive.
Hope lasted until summer 2018 when I finally made it back to Skopje. I booked a room in the center of town, just a few steps from the market. In a jet lag joint I bought peaches – from a few different dealers to be on the safe side – and took them to my grandmother’s barrack. Slivers of each batch were laid out to try, but these peaches weren’t. They were pale, watery, and lackluster. “It rained too much this year,” said my grandmother with a shake of her head and a tsk, drawing her attention to the Turkish soap opera on TV. It was easier for her to move on – she had had good peaches for decades.
From the orchards of Ontario to the Obor market in Bucharest, to the organic aisle at Whole Foods and back to Skopje. Nothing comes close to my memory in full saturation. The perfect peach with its fragrant wreath, its lanugo coat, its just blushed hue is now an elusive and illusory sphere.
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The longing for those past peaches is often accentuated not so much by their absence as by the facsimiles that arrive each season to take their place. At this point, I’ve given up trying to find the perfect peach. I can’t handle another anemic and floury disappointment. Instead, when the urge comes, I create my own holograms. I know it’s not the right thing, but it still feels kind of closer anyway.
This week’s cocktail is an ode to my memory of peaches. Seasonal peaches form the basis of this evocation and mezcal brings out the salt content of my tears (lol). The heat splatters are optional but necessary if you want that trichome-inspired stitch. To do this homage you will need:
- 3-5 peach slices (I use donut peaches, but everything that is ripe and nearby)
- 3/4 ounce lemon juice (fresh)
- ¾ ounce honey syrup *
- 2 ounces of mezcal (the less smoky variety) or blank tequila
- Optional: a few dashes of habanero bitters or just tabasco work well.
* To make honey syrup, simply add 1 part hot water to 3 parts honey and stir thoroughly.
Put the peach slices and a few dashes of hot sauce in a shaker and puree to a puree. Add the lemon, honey syrup and mezcal. Fill the shaker with ice and give it a short shake. counting to eight should be enough. Strain in a chilled glass on ice, the fresher and drier the better. A single large ice cube is ideal, but work with what you have.
(Please treat this as a template for reefing. Play around with different modifiers and different spirits. Gin, for example, almost always plays well.)
