I've been obsessed with peaches lately. Tacos, too, but I'll leave that for another post. It began about a week and a half ago, on Memorial Day weekend, when I heard that Frog Hollow's first harvest had started arriving at local farmers' markets. I called the Frog Hollow stall at the Ferry Plaza immediately. The shop clerk told me, "god willing," that the peaches would be arriving from Brentwood in a few hours. Could I wait till the weekday when I would be working downtown to get my hands on them? Hell, no. I convinced Zack to jump on BART with me immediately. Of course, when we arrived, no peaches were to be had thusfar. We browsed the shops, treating ourselves to Recchuiti chocolates and inspecting the produce to kill time. Once we were finished with each stall, we returned. No dice. I purchased a meager peach galette to tide me over. We strolled about some more, enjoying the sun and ocean. I was growing impatient, so we headed back. Under the guise of purchasing a cappucino, I beseeched the counter folks again. Any peaches yet? Nope. They were on their way. I pressed my face up against the window, hoping to find a buried crate of peaches. No such luck. But I did catch the glare of the barista. By now, a crowd was lingering outside the stall, furtively shooting glances to the back of the store and whispering to one another. We sat down to sip the coffee and chat. Time passed. The capuccino was making me even more jittery and impatient. Also, I had to use the restroom. Coincidentally, it was located next to the Frog Hollow store. As I walked up, I saw that the crowd had grown even larger. And people were leaving. With bags of golden treasure! Their unmistakable ambrosial scent wafted through the air. My bladder forgotten, I darted to the crates immediately, elbowing aside old ladies, soccer moms and strollers, and greedily shoveled Queencrest peaches into my bag. Eureka! At last.

Now this may seem like extreme behavior for an adult 28 year old woman. But have you ever tasted a perfectly ripe Frog Hollow peach? Its luscious flesh has a buttery melt-in-you mouth succulence that is perfumed with an almost indescribable distinct flowery aroma. When I bit into my first peach of the season, its fragrance and nectar burst forth on my palate into a riot of mouthwateringly honeyed summery sweetness, delicately balanced with the perfect touch of acid. It was so juicy, it dribbled off my chin and dripped down my wrist to my elbow. I had to run over to the sink and finish it there. I had half a mind to place a bowl under my elbow to catch the juices. I wound up licking my arm.

I've been back to the Frog Hollow stalls (in Berkeley and in San Francisco) three times since. Yesterday, I broke out my homemade leaf lard made a pie with the remaining peaches (Spring Lady and Gold Dust). Once I realized the fruit I had weighed out wouldn't be enough filling for the pie (Okay, I confess - I snacked on some of the slices), and partially inspired by Christine, I threw in some fresh blueberries. Now, it may seem like a bit of a travesty to bake my treasured spheres of heaven into a pastry, but I worried that they would go bad before I could finish them. And I had been wondering how the peaches would cook. Anne and I shared a warm slice with some Strauss Family cream as soon as the pie came out of the oven. Need I say that they were delicious? Once it cooled a little more, it got even better. The peaches remained juicy, but not didn't release too much water, so the crust remained tender, flaky and crisp. The fruit grew more succulent, but not mushy. And most miraculously, the heat actually seemed to intensify their sweetness, although I didn't add much sugar. But now I have no more peaches! And the Frog Hollow stall won't be getting any until tomorrow after noon. Monterey Market carries them, but they close at 7. What's a girl to do?