In a village north of the Dordogne in the summer of 2016 a spectacular woman, who I am proud to call my surrogate mother, spent twenty minutes selecting four peaches from a French market stall. We ate them in the shade of Château des Milandes with fig saucisson, whole tomatoes, and 200g of comté tha
t cost me 12€. It might have been the 40 degree heat, but I still think about the peach that stained my very thoughts pink, in the knowledge that perfect food is just simple, and well chosen.
Now I live in London with my best friend, eating slices of chorizo from the chopping board with dry sherry, searching in restaurants and in my borrowed kitchen for more of those moments, the metaphorical peaches.