Yesterday, as Gary and I were leaving an afternoon birthday party, I demanded that he stop the car. We'd just passed a house in a hip little neighborhood that had a great funky garden and a pile of brush by the curb. Why stop for a pile of brush, you ask? Because it was LOADED with ripe peaches. Not much bigger than golf balls, but golden, velvety, and being steadily consumed by mocking birds. I grabbed a grocery bag (I keep a stash of reusable bags in the car, plus little boy suffers from carsickness, so I also have a little bag stuffed full of "emergency" plastic bags), fought off the mocking birds, and brought home about 30 small but extremely sweet peaches. Gary waited patiently while little boy offered encouragement and guidance- "you missed one over there, mama!"

When I finally got back in the car, Gary said that I'd reached new levels in my tenderheartedness. I've gone from rescuing dogs to birds, and now abandoned fruit. I piped in that he'd left out cool old furniture that I've rescued from the curb. Here's my question about the whole thing: who in their right mind would cut down five huge limbs loaded with ripe-to-almost-ripe fruit? My friend Liz has a little peach obsession. She was the first person I informed of this incident. I think she'd understand.

Hello, brandied peaches. Christmas will be fruity this year!