Seasonal Tastes

“Yes, I know, Mom. You won’t buy fruit out of season. So, we can’t buy peaches in November because they are imported. You have said it a thousand times. But, just so you know, I do have a taste for peach cobbler. Ripe, juicy peaches with crumbles on top. Or even peach pie. Maybe we can get a frozen peach pie.” She shook her head in disgust, clearly thinking I had not learned from her lecturing -what she called advice - through the years.

I was visiting my mother during my annual leave from work. She had taught us to eat healthy and only food that is in season where you live. She claimed it’s better for the body, and eating things that aren’t in season can cause illness or problems later in life.

My vacation is before Thanksgiving, and I can’t come back for Christmas. It’s a long expensive flight across country, so I want to make this visit count until the following year when I will have  accrued more leave.

We planned our meals for the week along with things to do, like going to the beach, estate sales, and picking out fabric for her to sew some new skirts and blouses for me. Her seamstress skills are legendary, and she always knows what might look good on me and what fabric matches the patterns. We would be busy shopping, bargain hunting, and eating good food.

Our first stop was K-Mart and the fabric section at the back of the store. The store had St. Patrick’s Day decorations up, and we had just gotten through Halloween.

“What’s going on?” she asked a young clerk. “Where did Thanksgiving go, with the turkey and pumpkin decorations?” The clerk just laughed and finished cutting our navy-blue woolen fabric and the maroon print for a blouse.

As I wandered the aisles, I marveled at all of the green decorations: party favors, little elves, green ribbon, green-and-gold party paper plates. Bunches of green and white balloons floated near the ceiling, tied with green ribbons. I found no pumpkins or fanned-out-tail turkey table decorations, not even ceramic ones. The only orange I saw was some sunflowers in the imitation flower aisle. The baking aisle had one cake pan shaped like a turkey and some pumpkin pie spice hidden at the back of a shelf. Figuring Mom’s spices were all old, I grabbed it.

We paid for our fabric and headed to the grocer. The door opened into the produce section, and colorful displays greeted us. Neatly stacked bright red and yellow apples couldn’t outdo the large heirloom oranges, and their scents competed. Then the biggest surprise silently shouted for me to come over. Peaches! Peaches marked “organic and locally farmed.” The produce guy was in the aisle, and Mom, being Mom, marched up to him. He looked down at my tiny mother, eyebrows raised. “May I help you?” he asked.

“Most certainly, you may. Why are there peaches over there?” She pointed, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Peaches are always in that area Ma’am, when we carry them.”

“I know that! Why are you carrying them now?”

“Ma’am we get peaches year ‘round.”

“It’s not peach season, and you are a produce manager, right?” She paused and glared at him. “Since you are a produce manager, you would know that this is not peach season. Those peaches state they are locally grown.”

“Ma’am, I don’t order the supplies. I stock the displays.” He walked away while my mother gaped at him.

“Did you see that snot walk away from me? How dare he! Peaches don’t belong in the store in November.”

“It’s okay, Ma. I told you I had a hankering for peach cobbler. Maybe the universe heard me and made it so, as Captain Picard of Star Trek always said.”

I set the peaches on the counter when we got home, planning to prepare them in the morning. The pantry had all the other ingredients I needed for the peach cobbler. I planned to make several and freeze a few. Pastry baking is my specialty, learned from my Mom, and we made the flakiest crusts. I planned to add toasted pecans and almonds to the streusel with vanilla bean for extra flavor. Mom would be amazed at my changed-up recipe.

She and I played a few games of Canasta before bed. I took ginger snaps, put a layer of whipped cream cheese between 2 of them, and made sandwich cookies. She raved over them. I told her I used to make Dad ice cream sandwiches with graham crackers and a scoop of vanilla between them. We reminisced about our good times when Dad was still alive.

“Good night, Ma. Love you. I’ll see you in the morning and make you a fancy latte.” She smiled at me and picked up her book.

In the morning, we had baked eggs and toast. I kept the promise of the latte. She wanted a ginger pumpkin one and was searching for the spices when I pulled the pumpkin out of the bag. “I got this yesterday in K-Mart; it was the last one at the back of the shelf.” As I created her fancy Autumn latte, she thanked me for getting the spice because she had forgotten to put it on her grocery list.

As she cleaned our breakfast dishes, I picked up a peach and smelled the fragrance. Something was wrong. It smelled more like pumpkin! “Mom! Come smell this peach!”

She sniffed and backed up. “What in the world…what kind of peach is that? It smells like squash or pumpkin, not peach!”

I cut it open, and it didn’t have a pit. Peaches, plums, and apricots are all known as stone fruit because of the pit in the middle. It was not a stone fruit; not a peach. There was a big indent in the middle, like the pit had run away from the hull. I cut a taste-sized piece and put it in my mouth, waiting for the peach juice to tickle my tongue. I spit it out, and Ma looked at me.

“It tastes like sour lemon mixed with bad grapefruit. I can’t make dessert with this stuff.”

We headed back to the grocery, mystery fruit and receipt in hand. The same produce manager was in the aisle, and he made a beeline for the stock room when he saw Ma marching toward him. “Wait. You, just wait. Come back here!”

“Yes, what is it?” He smiled politely and kept his tone friendly.

I took charge then because Ma was being her impossible self. “We bought these er, peaches, yesterday. Remember?”

“We don’t have peaches in November. Those are sapadillas, very sweet inside but don’t eat the skin.”

“It isn’t sweet, it’s sour, and we want our money back,” Mom interjected.

“Of course they aren’t sweet now – they are out of season! You have to let them ripen up a bit.”

“The sign says locally grown peaches.” Mom turned to point at the fruit. “Where’s that sign?”

“Oh, that was a joke for April Fool’s Day.”

"It isn’t April 1st.” My mother snapped back.

“No, today is April 2nd,” the manager said, pointing to the large electronic calendar.

              Copyright © 9/19/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin