Peaches.
Peaches are the greatest food on the planet. This is not a subjective statement. It is a fact. But to clarify I will say yellow peaches are the greatest food on the planet. And if you are thinking "I really like donut peaches or white" then you can shut your whore mouth and stop reading. Why would I want a less intense version of a flavor I love? It's like rinsing off the salt from a tortilla chip and eating it damp. Peaches are ubiquitous with many wonderful things, warm summer days, lazy days in orchids, and ladies bums. Peaches are perfect and no one can tell me otherwise, though I will admit it is hard to find a perfectly ripe juicy peach.
I just returned from a vacation where I stayed in a beach hut in Belize. The hut is one of those ideal bright homes on stilts you imagine for a honeymoon if you grow up affluent. In the morning you can watch the sun rise over a crystal clear ocean, listen to the geckos calling each other in the evening while tropical birds chirp and catch bugs, and in the evening you can open all the windows and let the warm breeze lull you to sleep. As one would expect from a beach like this, there were free roaming dogs that rich owners toted from the U.S. to join in the retired beach life with their owners. The dogs were generally always hot, but they had a wave-less ocean to stand in where they spent the majority of their day wading in the water looking at the little tropical fish. It was a tropical paradise and everything in terms of the looks and seclusion we were hoping for, the only caveat being a jarring realization that our beach hut was so off the grid, it didn't have air conditioning. It was hot. Forget cuddling it was even too hot for eye contact. Every time Ky would put his arm around me I would peel it off me. Lovingly. One night after a cold shower, which was both necessary but also my only option as our grid free hut didn't offer hot water, Ky and I settled down for the evening at about 7pm. The sun would set, and with the beach running only on solar panels meant everything was shut down by 4pm. One thing that amazed me was during the shower the water would hit my head cold, then run down my back and by the time it hit my legs the trickled of water was warmed from my body. I felt like a summer road after a storm with fog forming all around me.
As we settled down to read (well I read and he asked what I was doing) we heard our beach hut proprietors getting into a heated discussion with a man who worked for them. He was not treated great in my opinion as the hut owners sort of barked orders at him throughout the day. Telling him to grab this ocean float or rake the sand. I don't know what his job was specifically, but he was sort of their bitch boy and it wasn't nice. The owners were drunk. During my interactions with the hut owners I found out they had moved to Belize in February for a retired lifestyle, though the unmarried duo joked that the woman put up all the money to buy the beach hut and the man said something about how she dragged him there. It was weird and uncomfortable. They moved for the paradise and yet were drunk and yelling at their helper for swimming out with a group of excited ladies in the evening.
In the book Call Me By Your Name a cutie little Italian teen boy named Elio does something vulgar and unthinkable. In an act of garish self discovery he snags a peach from his chef (he's a rich Italian) and pokes the peach pit out. First of all knowing what he was going to do he really should have found a freestone peach and been less wasteful. Then he shoves himself into the peach and gets off. I wanted to vomit at the description. It said the yellow peach was juicy and smooth. It sounded like a perfect peach. And he violated it. Finding a perfect peach is a delicate art, and he ruined it. Also peaches bruise and smoosh so easily. He would have been much better off with a grapefruit assuming he had no small cuts or embraced his newfound homosexuality and gone full out for a cucumber. But no, he had a perfect peach and he fucked it up. Literally. Thankfully the real hero of the book, Oliver, comes in and I assume seeing a perfect peach, eats it.
And that's what this vacation was. A peach is a paradise in your mouth, but not every peach is ripe and not everyone is happier on a beach. These drunken proprietors were fucking up their paradise with stress and anger. Every day for them would be a unripe peach no matter where they were. I had a therapist tell me you can't run away from your problems because you always take yourself with you. And it's true. If you are an angry person in Minnesota you'll be an angry person in Belize on a beach. Sure some things like weather may be more ideal than you are use to, but even a juicy peach can get fucked. While a lack of air conditioning made me oilier than a BP spill and on the verge of passing out 90% of the day, I still recognized this paradise as a juicy peach and I was not going to fuck it up. But if I did I'd still eat it.
Just kidding.
I just returned from a vacation where I stayed in a beach hut in Belize. The hut is one of those ideal bright homes on stilts you imagine for a honeymoon if you grow up affluent. In the morning you can watch the sun rise over a crystal clear ocean, listen to the geckos calling each other in the evening while tropical birds chirp and catch bugs, and in the evening you can open all the windows and let the warm breeze lull you to sleep. As one would expect from a beach like this, there were free roaming dogs that rich owners toted from the U.S. to join in the retired beach life with their owners. The dogs were generally always hot, but they had a wave-less ocean to stand in where they spent the majority of their day wading in the water looking at the little tropical fish. It was a tropical paradise and everything in terms of the looks and seclusion we were hoping for, the only caveat being a jarring realization that our beach hut was so off the grid, it didn't have air conditioning. It was hot. Forget cuddling it was even too hot for eye contact. Every time Ky would put his arm around me I would peel it off me. Lovingly. One night after a cold shower, which was both necessary but also my only option as our grid free hut didn't offer hot water, Ky and I settled down for the evening at about 7pm. The sun would set, and with the beach running only on solar panels meant everything was shut down by 4pm. One thing that amazed me was during the shower the water would hit my head cold, then run down my back and by the time it hit my legs the trickled of water was warmed from my body. I felt like a summer road after a storm with fog forming all around me.
As we settled down to read (well I read and he asked what I was doing) we heard our beach hut proprietors getting into a heated discussion with a man who worked for them. He was not treated great in my opinion as the hut owners sort of barked orders at him throughout the day. Telling him to grab this ocean float or rake the sand. I don't know what his job was specifically, but he was sort of their bitch boy and it wasn't nice. The owners were drunk. During my interactions with the hut owners I found out they had moved to Belize in February for a retired lifestyle, though the unmarried duo joked that the woman put up all the money to buy the beach hut and the man said something about how she dragged him there. It was weird and uncomfortable. They moved for the paradise and yet were drunk and yelling at their helper for swimming out with a group of excited ladies in the evening.
In the book Call Me By Your Name a cutie little Italian teen boy named Elio does something vulgar and unthinkable. In an act of garish self discovery he snags a peach from his chef (he's a rich Italian) and pokes the peach pit out. First of all knowing what he was going to do he really should have found a freestone peach and been less wasteful. Then he shoves himself into the peach and gets off. I wanted to vomit at the description. It said the yellow peach was juicy and smooth. It sounded like a perfect peach. And he violated it. Finding a perfect peach is a delicate art, and he ruined it. Also peaches bruise and smoosh so easily. He would have been much better off with a grapefruit assuming he had no small cuts or embraced his newfound homosexuality and gone full out for a cucumber. But no, he had a perfect peach and he fucked it up. Literally. Thankfully the real hero of the book, Oliver, comes in and I assume seeing a perfect peach, eats it.
And that's what this vacation was. A peach is a paradise in your mouth, but not every peach is ripe and not everyone is happier on a beach. These drunken proprietors were fucking up their paradise with stress and anger. Every day for them would be a unripe peach no matter where they were. I had a therapist tell me you can't run away from your problems because you always take yourself with you. And it's true. If you are an angry person in Minnesota you'll be an angry person in Belize on a beach. Sure some things like weather may be more ideal than you are use to, but even a juicy peach can get fucked. While a lack of air conditioning made me oilier than a BP spill and on the verge of passing out 90% of the day, I still recognized this paradise as a juicy peach and I was not going to fuck it up. But if I did I'd still eat it.
Just kidding.
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