an election year.

I love peaches. Like, a lot.

When I was a wee little lad, my brother and I had a sort of fruit rivalry, which worked out in each of our favors - I loved peaches, and he loved plums. I let him eat the plums, and he let me eat the peaches.

At one point, I discovered the glory of peaches and cream. Fresh, fragrant, juicy and cold peaches, sliced in to bitable pieces, placed in a bowl of cold creamy milk. Delicious.

In my middle school years, a time period I would give nothing to relive - as so much of it is racked with insecurity, my friend Chrissy day had a birthday party. It may have been thirteen, that year that ushers us previously presumed children into the misguided mentality of teenage adulthood. That year, the Presidents of the United States of America, a grunge band from Seattle, released a song with meaningless lyrics, touting the abundance of peaches in their life. My friends and I sang that song in endless amounts at her slumber party, feeling cooler than cool, while we ate gushers and chatted online via the wonders of AOL.

A few weeks ago, a friend was singing that song (I can't remember why), and I was reminded of that birthday party. I told him the story I just typed to you. He wasn't really interested. You don't have to be either, and that party isn't the point of this post. It may not have a point, actually, akin to the lyrics of the song.

But it's not over.

I was just sitting here at my computer, humming the tune of the song to myself, because I have four peaches in my refrigerator, delivered right to my door by Hyerin. Her and her boyriend retrieved them from a real life Korean Peach Festival in one of the neighboring tiny little towns settled outside of this one.

...millions of peaches, peaches for me...millions of peaches, peaches for free...

Sometime in between adolescence and adulthood, I discovered the joys of baking. You know this, as some would argue that I don't shut up about it. I was once intimidated by the homemade pie crust. I was afraid of messing up, of its fickle nature, of the fact that no one recipe tells you EXACTLY how much ice cold water to add. It's always, "add this much and then if it seems like it needs more, add that much...but be careful to not add too much...". And then there is the question, "do I use butter or crisco?...or both?...or neither? maybe oil?...yes, that's the answer...oil...no, wait, this person said her oil based crust was a bust...". I don't deal well with ambiguity, and I stayed out of that baking realm. And then I realized that way of thinking was silly.

...no one will die if I make a bad pie...really, what I should do is just try...

And so I did make a pie. And then another, and before you knew it, I was a baker of homemade pies. Which brings me to my next, possibly meaningless, point. I am going to bake a peach pie with my friend Hyerin, the bestower of kindness and also peaches, on Wednesday. They have a toaster oven, and way too many peaches. I have a love for baking pies, and a love for most things in the peach realm. We shall pull our resources together, and together, make a peach pie.

I shall play the song for her while we bake

...millions of of peaches, peaches for me, millions of peaches, peaches for free...

And for a peachy conclusion: years have passed since that meaningless, unforgettable song made its way into my life. Time has changed me, but some things still stay unchanged and true: I still love peaches. I still let insecurity get the best of me from time to time. I still feel really cool around my close friends. I still use some form of the internet to communicate with people that I think are a necessary part of life. I still find myself pretending to officially be an adult.

...millions of of peaches, peaches for me, millions of peaches, peaches for free...