Day Two-- Infusions

Coming along nicely, eh?  The fruit is surrendering its color and life-force to the vodka in holy self-sacrifice, and meantime, the vodka is becoming a rich, peachy and, I hate to say it, Jolly Rancher-like color.  Maybe tonight I'll try some.  Lord knows, working at a community college during the first week of fall term, I'll need it.

Merry Peaches!

Well, the cat's out of the bag.  People, this is going to be your Christmas present.  I just couldn't keep it a secret!!  I had to chronicle it for the blog!  I can't help it, it's becoming an obsession, this blog!  I must describe in detail every culinary project I undertake.  So now you know, family and friends, you're getting infused vodka for Christmas.

While riding through orchards the other day and telling myself for the three thousandth time this summer that I really need to learn how to start canning soon, I tried to come up with some other way to preserve the heaven-sent fruit that comes from my area.  What are the ways to stave off bacteria?  I re-counted my options in my head: well there's lowering the temperature to bacteria-shunning levels.  But nobody wants a bag of frozen peaches, not to mention that by the time they arrive in the mail, they'd be a soggy, moldy mess.  There's drying.  This is not a bad idea at all, and I might well try this next year, especially because my co-worker gave me a great recipe for Peach Leather, where you puree your fruit and spread it in sheets and dry it in the sun.  And when it's done, you roll it up like a Fruit Rollup!  Yum.  Anyway, there's salting, like what people used to do with pork and bison on the ol' Western Frontier.  But salted peaches?  Uh, no.  Pickling and canning: yes, I do intend to teach myself that process.  Next summer.  And what does that leave?  Spirits!

So I followed some very simple directions found on the internet: I cleaned and sliced the LAST (I'm not kidding, the very last) peaches that Rasmussen Farms had to offer this year, dropped them in some cute old Mason Jars, and covered them with vodka.  Eh voila!  I'm going to give them four days and then we'll see what they taste like, so I'll keep you posted.  I'm also going to do some pears, who, unlike peaches, are right at the beginning of their season-- so much so I need to let mine ripen for a few days.  But I shall keep you apprised, as always, for the chronicle of infusions. 

Megan and the Giant Peach

Not long ago my future in-laws were in town.  Adam and I had still not decided on a wedding venue, so we thought his family might like to come along to scout a site with us.  Driving to the bed and breakfast whose website looked appealing, we got a bit lost.  Not very lost-- we knew it was close-- so we pulled into a diner parking lot to ask.  As soon as we stopped, Adam hopped out and said, "Be right back."  Mike, Adam's dad, and I gasped.  "My son!"  Mike cried. "Asking for directions?!  Has he lost his manhood?  He's been kidnapped and replaced with a stranger!"  I myself was shocked too; in the nearly four years we've known each other, I've never once seen Adam ask for directions.  But, it turns out, we had nothing to fear-- Adam's testosterone levels were normal.  At the front door of the diner, Adam veered left and went behind the building.  "It's probably back here somewhere," he called to us.  His mom, Mary, exhaling the universal sound of exasperation, got out to get directions herself.  Inside of thirty seconds she was back in the car with the information we needed, while Adam was still bushwacking through story-high blackberry bushes out back.  "Oh, phew!" Sighed Mike, "Thank goodness.  I thought we lost him."

Though I was laughing my head off at the time, I was thinking of this incident yesterday, with significantly less laughter.  It's very difficult to laugh when you're riding your bike down a broken glass-riddled highway shoulder with semis roaring past.  "Are you sure this is the right way?"  I called.  I was determined to not lose my cool.  He was sure, he said, but we might as well consult the map.  We pulled over and looked at the really cool book my mom gave us, containing lots of road biking routes in the Columbia Gorge area.  We had gone the wrong way; we were supposed to cross the freeway, not turn onto it.  So instead of turning back to the road we were meant to turn onto in the first place, Adam said, "Let's just turn on to this road here.  I'm sure it'll join up with the path."  I hemmed.  "Just trust me," he said.

Twenty minutes later, I was pushing my seventies-era, VERY heavy road bike up the steepest hill I've seen since leaving San Francisco.  As sweat poured down my face, and my breathing verged on asthma, I repeated the loving-kindness mantra in my mind.  Twenty minutes after THAT, I was still pushing my bike up the hill.  Adam by now was off his bike and pushing too.

But twenty minutes later still we had come to Panorama Point, the true starting point of the loop.  As I caught my breath and guzzled water, this is what I beheld.      

Do you see what appears to be a green furry carpeting lining the valley floor?  Those are the hundreds of fruit orchards that keep us all in good fruit supply all summer long.  One of those orchards down there, in fact, was to supply what would turn out to be one of the best lunches I've ever eaten.

The one nice thing about pushing your bike up an enormous hill is that you get to ride down it.  As we barreled down the hill and continued to pedal easily through the flat countryside, we passed green fields, idyllic orchards, a few white steepled churches, and charming farmhouses, many with For Sale signs that we eyed enviously.  We just could not believe this beautiful place.  We live here, we said out loud more than once.

As we approached one of the many signs proclaiming the presence of "Fresh Fruit" Adam suggested we turn in and get something to eat.  After our earlier navigational debacle I actually had the fleeting impulse to say, "No, let's just stay on the path.  I don't want to backtrack anymore."  But I was tired and hungry and my goal was fun, not disputes.  We turned into the Rasmussen Family Farm parking lot and kicked down our kickstands.

The fruits and veggies they had for sale were plentiful, cheap, and gorgeous.  Luscious bell peppers, plums, squash, shallots, basil, the season's first apples.  But the peaches were clearly the stars that day.  We were drawn to the peach table by scent alone.  I didn't write down all the varieties-- I should have-- but there were probably five different kinds, all downy and round, and colored that indescribable blending hue of reddish orange.  Adam and I pressed a few for ripeness and discovered that all of them were perfect, and ready to be eaten NOW.  We each chose two enormous peaches, the size of small grapefruits.  One dollar each.

Outside we sat on some wagons and bit in.  The peaches exploded all over our faces and we leaned forward to let tributaries of juice spill to the grass.  They were perfect: sweet and fleshy but so juicy we half drank, half chewed them.  We were full after one, but couldn't resist a second go-around.  Fortunately, before I devoured mine, Adam got a couple shots of me with my peaches.  

Later, back on the road, Adam said, "I'm stuck on that peach.  I'm still biting into it, you know?"  Mmm, yes.  A man after my own heart.  I guess I'll follow him anywhere.