Chasing that First High

The year was 1969. The summer of Woodstock. People my age were chanting about peace and love and listening to rock music.

It was the summer between my graduation from high school and starting college. I talked my way into a minimum-wage job ($1.25 an hour) selling men’s clothes but found myself mostly doing dreaded inventory at a neighborhood, men’s retail store: 3 whiskey (color) glen-plaid (pattern), 42 R (size). I learned to tell a man’s waist and inseam measurement on sight and how to talk him into buying that pair of pants, with a shirt that complemented his eye color to boot. But I never talked the store owner into paying the commissions she’d promised.

We lived a walkable few blocks away in a smallish, newish bungalow on a tightly packed block of two-family flats, our house like a toddler riding a shiny new tricycle amongst an army of road-weary teens on dirt bikes, all looking down on us.

One Sunday, our next-door neighbor called over the fence to me as I sat in the yard, Jackie De Shannon singing “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” from my transistor radio, as I sunned myself in pursuit of a tan that would never come to my red-head’s skin, a fact it took me another ten years and more than one case of sun hives to realize.

As I walked to the fence our neighbor, someone we’d only waved to, told me she had a problem. I said what neighbors said, at least back then, “What can I do?”

She responded by handing over a bushel barrel of freshly-picked, fat, ripe peaches from her tree. “Take these. I have way too many.”

I probably said thanks before I took them inside to our tiny kitchen. That Sunday my Mom and I made endless pies, bulging with the fat, juicy peaches. We handed at least one such pie back over the fence to our neighbor and froze the pies our family couldn’t eat.

In the process of peeling and slicing peaches I bit into one. As juice ran down my chin and hands, my skin tingled and stars burst forth in that center of my brain that responds immediately with a physical high to an addictive substance. I suddenly had a little love in my heart. My vision filled with a vision of a hot, golden, summer day.

I savored that perfect peach and then gobbled a few more when mom wasn’t looking. That first, perfect-peach high. I was hooked.

For the last 49 summers I’ve been searching for another peach that good

This summer I shared part of a box of Georgia peaches from “the peach truck” that comes to Louisville several times a summer. I’ve bought bags of Georgia peaches multiple times at the fruit market. I’ve also bought bags of peaches at various farmers’ markets, some from Pennsylvania, South Carolina and one from about a mile down the lane on Tucker Station Road.  

Almost all the peaches this summer have been good. Some are outstanding, others so-so. Some have just enough of the hint of that first, perfect, summer-of-1969-peach to keep me buying and trying peaches. Each time I think: “Maybe the next one”.

Seafood As Penance No More

As you may know if you read my last post,  I am writing from Maui. Ironically, I am going to write today about some of the seafood we are enjoying on this trip. I say ironically because I must confess, I was raised a "fish on Friday" Catholic in St. Louis. Fish was penance for our sins and tasted accordingly. That usually meant the generic Mrs. Paul's fish sticks. Maui will force anyone to let go of the seafood as penance nonsense who might still be clinging to that concept.

The first night's meal at Coconuts, with the best fish tacos in the world, would seem to be the final word on seafood culinary delight. But we had learned of a little shop that sells fresh seafood caught by locals the same day. We bought some opakapaka the second day we were here. My husband, who is gifted in culinary techniques, lightly coated the opakapaka with seasoned, coarsely ground almonds and rice chex and fresh herbs, baking it according to the Canadian method: 450 degrees, 10 minutes per inch. I pronounced it sublime and perhaps the most flavorful food I had ever eaten. I did not even exclude dark chocolate from the comparison. For me this is almost a St. Paul conversion. Not to be confused with Mrs. Paul.

Two days ago, at Stella Blue's for lunch, I had fresh tuna salad on up-country greens. The only similarity to canned tuna salad from my youth was...well, the name and a little celery. There was no mayonnaise obscuring the flavor or binding the tuna together. I'm not sure there was any dressing at all. The menu had promised dolphin-safe tuna. The waitress delivered a big taste of heaven. We are not always able to manage three meals a day. A lunch at Stella Blues requires a rest that evening. Maybe a glass of wine and crackers or a cup of milk before bedtime, depending on your inclination.

For another lunch we had feasted on fresh mahi-mahi from Foodland. I had broiled, using the "Dorothy method": stay close to stove and remove when my nose tells me it's done. My nose method  is very reliable for baked goods and vegetables. With seafood it may just indicate the surface is browning. I like my fish cooked completely so I supplement my smell test by poking the fish in the middle and peeking. My husband prefers slightly rare to over-cooked fish and is happy with the fish when it smells done to me. He ordinarily cannot tell by his sense of smell alone when food is done. We topped our mahi-mahi with up-country lettuce and tomato slices on toast. Mine was eaten on rice bread due to my gluten allergy.

Last night the restaurant we ate at was Sansei, a popular sushi and Japanese restaurant that usually is too crowded to get in unless you make a reservation well in advance or are prepared for a long wait. Last night was Kihei 4th Friday. Which as best I can tell is some type of music, drinking festival in the area where we are staying. We had planned to try the Brick Oven, a new restaurant that features Italian-style food, including pizza. The draw for me, having celiac, was that EVERYTHING in the restaurant is gluten free. Due to the 4th Friday festival we were not able to drive, let alone park,  anywhere near the Brick Oven. Ironically though, the usual crowd was trapped on the other side of Kihei and were not able to get to Sensei so we waltzed right in. Our good fortune.


I ate spearfish for the first time. "Meaty," if you will forgive the term. And very flavorful though not as rich as opakapaka. The spearfish was served with kale risotto and grilled asparagus and a light lemon sauce on the side. Yum. My husband was delighted with the Japanese tempura he had ordered.


Tonight is our wedding anniversary and we are dining at Sarento's on the Beach. I'm sure the food will be good but the main draw from my perspective is the spectacular ocean view, particularly at sunset. I've already eaten enough wonderful seafood meals to satisfy my gastronomic memory for a lifetime. But if the seafood is memorable I promise to write about it.