No sooner have I entered the Foster Harris House in Washington, Virginia when I spot it – a deep straw basket delivered by a neighbor, piled high with luscious round orbs, streaked with pink, blush and gold. It has been just a few hours since I’ve departed the Big Apple, and I am confronted with a mountain of giant peaches. The Southern air is a touch sultry and the peaches simply glow with enticement.
Diane MacPherson invites me into the kitchen, and she brings along the basket. I perch myself on a stool. There are lots of things to catch up on after almost a year’s absence. Chef John MacPherson offers me a glass of wine. Diane slices one of the tempting peaches. If it is true that one can actually taste the anticipation of a pending holiday, the flavors of the adventures that lie ahead are surely locked in these succulent peaches. The fruit is impossibly bright, ripe and laden with juice. The nectar sweetens my lips and clings to my fingers. All past peaches seem dry, woody and withered by comparison.
We talk for hours about food, wine and plans for the future. Time seems to pass differently in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. And, the taste of these decadent peaches is like an infusion of sunshine.
John scoops servings of his homemade vanilla ice cream and surrounds the velvety rich concoction with more sliced peaches. Does anyone want a shaving of chocolate on top? Heck, yes!
The cold, silky dessert and the peaches rejuvenate, signaling an awakening of all the senses neglected by just a tad too much responsibility.
It is good to be back at the Foster Harris House.
I visited the food and wine country of Virginia July 23 – 27, 2009.
The cold, silky dessert and the peaches rejuvenate, signaling an awakening of all the senses neglected by just a tad too much responsibility.
It is good to be back at the Foster Harris House.
I visited the food and wine country of Virginia July 23 – 27, 2009.
©2009 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved
