The Donut Peach
Is there a more beautiful expression of nature?
One of the truths of life in Dubai is the lack of seasonality. We do have incredible diversity here when it comes to nationalities, languages, and cuisines, but not when it comes to the seasons. The seasons alternate between hellishly hot and humid and just plain hot. I suppose it could be worse, but how do you define seasonal in a place with no growing season and essentially no seasons?
Unfortunately, this limitation carries over to the fruit and vegetable selection. Because nothing much is grown here for obvious reasons -- the biggest two being sand and the lack of rain (the average monthly rainfall is measured in millimeters!) -- our grocery stores are stocked with imported produce. Sure, we have an abundant supply of tropical fruits like pineapples, mangos, mangosteens, lychees and the funky rambutans year round, but there is no such thing as fresh local asparagus in the spring or (SOB) peaches and cream corn mid-summer. Spring as we know it in the US doesn’t exist, and dates are the only local crops not grown in a sandy hot house. The dates here do have a growing season and they are very delicious, but if you know me, you know I’m into my seasonal, local and whenever possible, organic produce, and only the Bedouin’s seem able to subsist on a diet exclusively made up of dates.
Although there are a few things (besides dates) grown here, you wouldn’t call them seasonal. They’re force-grown in artificial conditions. The local tomatoes are mostly pink and hard year round. The ever-present cucumbers aren’t bad, but what do you suppose they feed them to get them to grow in the sand? To fill in the gaps, we get shipments from the US throughout the year, and winter produce from the southern hemisphere in the summer. See what I mean? It all becomes very confusing. So I try to restrict my seasonal produce to what is somewhat regional, and avoid the countries known to export poison-laced food, like China.
On a recent shopping trip to Carrefour, the French version of Wal-Mart, the gorgeous little donut peaches from Tunisia tempted me. They didn’t claim to be organic, strike one. But Tunisia is in Africa and that’s relatively close to Dubai. And they sure as hell are seasonal; I’ve NEVER seen a beautiful petit donut peach in the dead of winter. “Mon Dieu! I can buy them! This will be such a treat!” I’m imagining the juicy white flesh, the perfume-y aroma, and the delicate floral taste of the little gems I used to buy at the farmer’s market in KC.
I bought several and took them home. After a few days on the kitchen counter they were ripe. Another day in the fridge and they were ready to eat. The anticipation was killing me. Would they be everything I remembered? Would I be able to forgive myself for buying something no bigger than your fist with a carbon footprint the size of Texas? Did slave laborers earning a few pennies a day pick them?
Oh for God’s sake, quit worrying about it all and just eat the thing. I gave one good sniff. Ummmm, the bouquet’s there. I peeled away the beautifully blushed skin with all the pesticides and sunk my teeth into the flesh. Mon Dieu indeed. All the softness, the ripeness, and nectar played on my palate, just like I imagined it would. I even tasted a bit of oak around the pit and thought of a good brut Champagne. I ate two. Organic? Who cares? Local? Not exactly. Seasonal? You bet. Mother Nature knows how to keep a good thing sacred. How can anything, ANYTHING taste so good?
