Visiting friends brought a bag of sumptuous looking peaches, picked that very morning from the gnarly old branches of a rickety peach tree in their Victorian walled garden. The tree’s undertaken an angular reinvention from a lock down chop down. Whilst beauteous to the eye the texture of the peaches more akin to weaponised cricket balls, they needed more than a little ‘coaxing’.

 

 

 

Rafts of burnished, brioche Pan Perdue, peaches gently poached, then caramel charred before being tumbled together with a few fresh raspberries. Delicately folded through their self made, sweet sticky syrup. Then ‘muddied’ with a tiny frisson of vanilla liqueur, the booze and juices formed a divine concoction.

 

 

 

The conversation tripped casually to Peach Melba and we found ourselves in the company of one who had much knowledge of the Opera singer. Dame Hélène “Nellie” Porter Mitchell (1861-1931) her crystal voice of some 3 octaves range and so forth. Going to exacting lengths to tell of Escoffier at The Savoy. The Tea Boys face was a picture as she extolled her litany of the subject.

 

 

 

 

I tuned in with Augustes’ birthday was in October which lightened the moment and that then topped it off with “and his real name was Georges”. The Tea Boy then chided (causing giggly commotion) “… and why on earth would you know that?”

Replying  “Great Aunt Beatrice shared his birthday, but then of course you have also bought me 3 of his books my treasure”.

 

  

 

Nota bene. My, equally Rubenesque and much adored G.A.B. was also of doyen of music … I’ll have ya know. She, however, played piano in sing-a-long pubs and on the BBC Radio. An ahem, morale-boosting, variety programme, during the late 1940-.50’s called Workers Playtime. She was blistering fun, smoked like a chimney, drank Guinness,(no stout about it) the baby of 8 sisters, ballsy and took no prisoners. Culture ha culture ? Well my gal got it covered! Beer Barrel Polka? She was the beery old  bird in the barrel that they rolled out! 

Swiftly reverting back to the current century, via the amber footed, glass dessert coup, last belonging to dear G.A.B.

 

 

 

To the myriad of computations with themed ‘peach melba’, I’m rarely adverse to a light bulb moment hence 2 cans of peach slices. 1 in juice and the other light syrup were despatched into the whizzer with a couple of glugs of corn syrup.  After a quick taste, the juice of 2 lemons stirred through the peachy mush found its way into the freezer via a couple of up-cycled takeaway containers the kids.

 

 

  

 

They bring them, I fill them, (it’s a parental thing) though never before have I had such a tidy freezers. (even make Mary Poppins spit spot proud)

The raspberry sorbet came from necessity as the canes, as do the red currants, spirit themselves into the garden flourishing wonderful fruits that I remain happy to share with the black birds. Regular harvesting (of the raspberries not the black birds) a whiff if fine sugar and it’s into the freezer for them too, yes yes in spiffing takeaway containers.  (Canned also work I’m delighted to report).

 

 

 

Time for the ‘cut and shut’ as they say in motoring parlance. Blobs and dobs of the raspberry maybe a few redcurrants sorbet (walloped into scarified spaces formed with the handle of a spoon) ungraciously dolloped into the slightly softened peach sorbet.

Huzzah, return to the freezer for their marital bliss / union.

Imprecisely, your version, as you can but this is a to do and a worthy starting g point.

 

Toot toot x

 

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