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.
Homepaddock 
Another memory comes flooding in HP.
My aunt used to bottle copious quantities of black boys from the family orchard.
As long as we helped – even just a little – we would get a few jars of the most delicious black boy peach jelly. Painstakingly strained through muslin cloth and boiled to within an inch of its life, it was thick, sweet and oh so yummy!
On cold mutton – read hogget – it was to die for.
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