It’s a rare thing, indeed, for a person to NOT like peaches. I know. In fact, I think I’ve only ever met one other person who doesn’t like peaches. Actually, two someones.
How can I not like peaches?
It began when I was a child.
Canned peaches were a family favorite.
And they were regularly served on our dinner table (and by regularly, I mean
nightly – or at least that’s how I recall it – the trauma still fresh in mind). Quite simply, to me, canned peaches smelled
like the most odiferous of … wait for it … stinky feet. And that’s where my dis-love of peaches started.
In addition to the pungent odor that didn’t quite agree with my stomach, the slimy goo in which said canned peaches were contained simply made me feel all icky inside. It was thick and runny. Snot-like in its existence. Covering the peaches and making them jiggle about in the same glass bowl that my mother always put the peaches in. Canned peaches fall in the same category as oysters, as far as I’m concerned. All ooey and gooey and … ugh. Just. Ugh. And no, I don’t like oysters either.
How the rest of my family could practically inhale the things after dinner, the slimy goo happily dripping down their chins, I have no idea. Perhaps I was adopted. (Kidding! They didn’t allow a single drop of said slimy goo to miss their mouths. I also might be kidding about being adopted.)
Fresh peaches? Absolutely. Not.
Yes, I agree, they are certainly different than the canned variety. And I know people love the feel, the smell, the taste of the luscious fruit. Not to mention the nutritional value, what with all the antioxidants and such.
My father had peach trees in the yard. The deer and squirrels LOVED them. The proof of which was the disgusting remnants left scattered about the yard. And which made an even more disgusting mess every time I mowed the yard (and no, I was not about to pick up the leavin’s before I hopped on the mower! Ewwwwww!)
During the summer, the height of peach season, we often
drove over an hour to a little town in the Texas hill country, that is renowned
for its peach crop. My mother would load
up boxes of them. I, of course, wasn’t
much help. And then I was forced to ride
home (another hour plus!) with the sickening smell pervading every inch of the
car’s interior. My mother, however, was
in heaven.I really wanted to like them. Truly, I did. But I just couldn’t get past the smell.
And in some respects, the texture. The fuzzy skin. Ew. Just the thought of picking them up makes my skin crawl.
My husband must know how very much I love him, when, during peach season, I make a monumental sacrifice by adding them to our grocery list. As a kid, I watched my mom in the store, picking up the peaches, gently squeezing them, smelling them. And so, I do the same. Though admittedly, I’m not really sure what I’m looking for in a good peach.
Does it smell like stinky feet? Okay – it must be a good one!
My lack of love for peaches has become somewhat of a family joke. My dad thinks he’s real cute, when his peach trees are full and ready to be picked. I know it’s time because every year, without fail, he calls me to tell me the peach trees are full and they’re ready for ME to come pick them. My gag reflex tells him he’s done his job. He’s a real comedian, that one. And he laughs and laughs and laughs some more.
There was a time, when going to the car wash, I would request “pina colada” as my scent of choice. After a few days, that old, familiar
What. On. Earth.
Convinced that they mistakenly heard me say “peach”, I tried the next time to enunciate better, even leaning my head out the window to clearly say “PI-NA CO-LA-DA”. Yet the results were the same. Having learned my lesson, I now simply request “new car” scent.
When my oldest granddaughter was old enough to eat solid food, her parents introduced one new food at a time (infant allergy testing, you know). Imagine how proud I was when I received a text saying I wasn’t the only one in the family that didn’t like peaches! My pumpkin-girl and I are kindred spirits! At the ripe old age of six months, the girl knew what was up! And peaches. Definitely. Weren’t. It! My girl!
My loathing of peaches even extends to the color “peach”. Tangerine and pumpkin, okay. But the pale pinkish-orangish color of peach. Nah. I’m more of a teal type of girl. Or aqua. Like the ocean. (Under the Sea)
You may be wondering if I’ve even ever tried peaches? Why yes, I have!
I’ve tried peach cobbler, a staple in Texas at every barbeque restaurant, buffet and potluck dinner! Alas, I work my way around the peaches, trying to separate the “cobbler” from the fruit as much as possible. Do you know how difficult that is?
I’ve even attempted to bite into a fresh peach. Once. I timidly picked up the colorful fruit. Brought it close to my mouth. Breathed in. Opened my mouth. And quickly put it down.
Once in a fancy Italian restaurant, I ordered a Bellini. Before I knew what Bellinis were. One sip. Might as well have put the $6 I paid for the thing into a shredder.
At bunco recently, the host offered up mango margaritas, with a splash of peach something-or-another. Water for me, thanks!
Having outgrown my dislike of onions and tomatoes, I’d have to say it’s a pretty safe bet that my taste buds, after 54 years, won’t turn the corner on this one.
Plain and simple. I. Don’t. Like. Peaches.
So yeah. I’m weird like that. I’m the one person you’ll only ever meet who doesn’t like them.
More for you, you say? Good on ya! More for you!
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