Peach hand pies

August 24, 2013 § Leave a comment

If there’s something that has taken a bit of getting used to in my move to Boston, it’s the existence of seasons. And humidity. And thunderstorms. And like, a season where no produce is in-season. Weird. Summer in Boston is a bizarre mix of scorching hot days, days that begin with thunderstorms and turn sunny, and days when it pours and pours. My summer in Boston has also been an exhaustive, exhausting blur of activity, which might help to explain why I’m getting so many complaints about not posting here often enough.

The problem is, writing is my quiet space; it’s what I do when I’m feeling peaceful, reflective, all those adjectives that I haven’t felt in awhile. And while I love being busy, I also love sitting in an abandoned café, gazing out the window and wondering what comes next – though, if I’m being honest, my thoughts often surround what happened in the past. But in that space where time pushes forward, leaving little space to reflect, I’ve had some fun settling into a new life rhythm, that grown-up life that everyone my age likes to talk about. I’ve gone to Newport and Gloucester; visited family of friends; made zucchini muffins and tiny glazed lime cookies, rolled in poppy seeds (more on these soon, I promise!); threw together a bowl of pasta with mozzarella balls, cherry tomatoes, and herbs, just like my mom used to make; met the Mayor; watched Casablanca on a outdoor screen overlooking the Charles as the wind made for curious distortions of the images; joined a running club, and possibly committed to parts of a cross-country season; and finally, sat down to a dinner last night of sun-dried tomato bread we picked up from When Pigs Fly, topped with my homemade pesto, fresh burrata from the neighborhood Italian shop, and some tomatoes from our farm, brushed in olive oil and garlic and roasted (thanks Dan!) until they gushed generous juices when broken with a knife. Messy, messy summer on a plate.

That said, two cravings are rearing their heads, now that fall is just around the corner and I realize what I haven’t gotten to eating this summer. Peaches and corn. Peaches and corn. Peaches and corn. I made these peach pocket pies a long time ago – the photo is taken on our front porch in San Francisco – and I remember the edges being slightly crunchy and chewy with the crusted juices from the peaches, which were barely sweetened so that they retained that slight pucker of cooked fruit. There’s a lovely recipe for bourbon peach hand pies over at Smitten Kitchen, which I might have used but honestly I can’t really remember and have a vague feeling it might have come from some page of a magazine I ripped out once upon a time.

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