Getting Picked up in Brentwood

I should be keeping this a secret, but it's just too good. And it was passed down to me, after all, it would be selfish not to fess up. I went picking in Brentwood, a small town in the California Delta graced with fruit trees, corn fields, and a farmstand on every corner, once you get past the newly planted suburbia, that is.

Not having been there before, I wasn't quite sure what to expect; it is, or so I thought, that awkward time when the bounty of spring is long gone, and the fruits (and vegetables) of summer are not quite ready.

What seemed roughly 20 pounds of fruit plucked by hand from the first farm turned out to be closer to 40; apricots, peaches and nectarines, oh my! Some so ripe, they began to split and burst before even making it to the car. Could these beauties survive the long trek home, I wondered? At that, not before a few more stops out of town; there are berries, corn, beans, and tomatoes to be had.

And in answer to my question: barely. Such tender little babies, a good third of them destined for cobbler and sorbet before nightfall. I'm hoping the rest might stick around for at least a few more days. I've got plans for them.

There is nothing that compares to ripe fruit from the tree. Nothing. And these days, there's really no other way to get it than to do it yourself. They may have suffered bruises along the way, but the beauty here is on the inside. They are fresh, juicy and delicious. Nectar dripping to the toes. Eat these in the kitchen, it's easier to clean up afterwards.