Day 204 August is about the sweetness of peaches. Well, since the peach tree on the farm died, it’s about the sweetness of purchased peaches and somewhat less about the boiling of water, peeling of peaches, the sweating, and the canning of peaches. But in some ways, that makes the peaches less sweet, I think. This part of the Eastern Shore, at one time, was miles of peach orchards, they say. When I moved to the farm, there remained only a single, cankered, broken, twisted, ancient tree of a variety called “Jubilee”, a freestone peach of such intense flavor that all the bit about sweat and work was something I looked forward to eagerly. To have homemade Jubilee peach perserves the rest of the year was to open August at any time, for what is best about August. A taste could invoke bushels of crabs and sweet corn and hammocks and reading at the beach. Seriously. Those things could fill a room in February, especially if the jar being opened was the very last one. Ah. I was so upset when the tree died. The varieties I planted after never came close – and I’ve not found Jubilee. Still, I buy peaches and stand in the yard where the peach tree was, and eat them with the juice running down my chin. It is a small ritual, and a nod to what was special in that place, once.