A pyrrhic victory

Since this weekend's jaunt out to a pick-your-own farm in rural Maryland, I've had a kitchen occupied by an invading army of fresh peaches, their serried ranks covering about half of the already limited counter space. When I was wandering around among trees covered with fruit, a single bucket's worth seemed moderate, but in the confines of a galley kitchen, the scope of that miscalculation became clear. Fresh-off-the-tree peaches are too good to waste, but they're too ripe to last long; quick action was essential.

The pie recipe I got from Weebat had worked out fairly well in the past, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to try something new, so I pulled up a recipe for peach meringue pie and got to work. Much less cursing than usual later (I am not a kitchen adept, save in the area of fressing like a bandit), the results are a pie that looks okay but fails the taste test. First, and saddest, the filling is too dense. Maybe it needs to be lighter on the corn starch; maybe it needed less cooking; maybe the apartment's damnable electric range is somehow to blame. Second, a frozen crust, that boon to lazy cooks, doesn't cut it for a recipe with so little oven time. Third, I did not read Alton's advice on the subject of meringue pies (nor do I even own a blowtorch), so my effort to get those lovely brown peaks caused the tragedy of weeping meringue. Friends, don't let this happen to you.

The rest of the army mocked me from its conquered territory, and I had agreed to meet up with the Texas Cajuns at a local bar, so I surrendered and took the easy way out, slicing, pitting, and freezing the remainder of the peaches. Their eventual fate is TBD. Baked, into cobbler or pie or even just in foil? Topped with raspberry preserves and fresh whipped cream? Drowned in vodka, to be alchemically distilled come Christmas? The decision will not be hasty. Let 'em fret.