Anyone that knows me well, knows that every summer, I turn into an obsessive-compulsive peach fantatic. During the height of the season, every day that I miss a peach, I experience a little bit of soul death. I know it sounds dramatic, but OCPD is like that.
I also am very discerning about my peaches. I won't stand for mealy or mild mannered. I like a peach that's bracingly sweet but balanced with good acidity. Normally, I have them express delivered—meaning driven in by my very kind in-laws who live in Modesto where there's a place called Smith Ranch (701 Claratina Avenue, off McHenry Ave.) that's peach legendary. I just finished up a flat of Fay Elberta's that were true ambrosia.
When I think of summer in San Francisco, I think of a hot day in Dolores Park, wedged somewhere between the hipsters, relishing a lime popsicle from one of the many paleta carts that ring-a-ding over the bumpy lawn.