A miniature black boy peach tree grew in my parent’s garden.
What it lacked in height was more than compensated for by both the quantity and quality of its fruit.
Each autumn we’d harvest dozens of sweet, juicy deep red-fleshed fruit.
Black boys aren’t easy to come by from commercial growers but friends who are spending the weekend with them have a tree in their garden and brought a large bag of fruit with them.
Sometimes today’s taste isn’t as delicious as yesterday’s memory, but these black boys are just as I remember them.
Today I’m grateful for a taste from childhood.