I never tasted a peach until I moved to Birmingham. The little orbs of sun-kissed gold grown in Chilton County far out flavor the peaches I drenched in cream and sprinkled with sugar as a child in Utah. In an attempt to perfect perfection, I embarked on a peach crisp to present at a lazy Sunday barbecue.
Bringing a little of the southwest to the south, I pulled the recipe from “With A Measure of Grace,” the cookbook from Hell’s Backbone Grill in Boulder, Utah. A few years ago, a friend and I made the trek through the state’s back roads with this restaurant in mind. There’s not much but sagebrush and hoodoos on the way and after breakfast, lunch and dinner, one can accurately say they’ve experienced the city.
The recipe calls for cornmeal and I reluctantly obliged. Of course, I had only a course grind variety on hand but figured all would work itself out in the oven.
I was wrong.
When we sat down at table my friends politely crunched. No one finished but my dear friend Dan – the only person with a sweet tooth fierce enough to succumb to a lackluster dessert. He also appeased my tender feelings. Charles Essington Walton IV took these beautiful photographs (he does live up to the name) and I’d be remiss to not do something with them.
Alas, I learn a lesson I already knew. A good peach is best simply adorned. A dousing of cream and slightest sprinkling of sugar will always do.
