It was the summer of 1994, and I was in my beloved Italy. The fierce July sun beat down on the stucco terrace, where my Roman uncle and I were waiting for our late morning breakfast. My aunt, you see, had just plucked three peaches from a porcelain bowl on the kitchen counter. She had bought them the day before at an outdoor market, from a vendor who had asked her, “Oggi o domani?”
Tomorrow, Zia Rita had replied. The man selected three rich, golden peaches, flecked with bits of ruby. "Mi raccomando, signora," he had said.
Back in our kitchen, Zia Rita got out a cutting board, some paring knives and a hunk of pecorino romano; and brought it all out to us on the terrace.
I was 17 years old, and I had never seen a peach like this. Fresh from an orchard down the road, the peach had never been irradiated. Never been on a truck. Never been refrigerated. I inhaled its sweet fragrance, noticed its heft. I wrinkled my nose at the sharp cheese on the cutting board and started to bite into the fruit's velvety flesh.
"Basta, Holly!" my uncle ordered. We were to eat our peaches alla Romana.
Now, until that summer, I had never liked to strumpet up my fruit with accoutrements. I preferred an altogether unadorned flesh. But my uncle knew better. We sliced our peaches into quarters, halved the quarters, cut a sliver of cheese for each and tasted.
I tell you here, friend: the heavens opened; the angels sang; and all was right with the world. The sharpness of the salty sheep's milk begged for the juicy, syrupy fruit, and the union was spectacular. I looked at my uncle, incredulous. He smiled and forked another piece of pecorino and fruit. If peaches were indeed Venus' nectar, the pecorino was her ambrosia.
For some, the taste of Italy may be a shimmering glass of Barolo. A savory hunk of osso bucco. A creamy lick of gelato. But for me, the country's most tantalizing dish comes once a year, from June to September. Summer in Rome brings la pesca con pecorino: The peaches are perfectly ripe, and the cheese, well, it's not called romano for nothing.
Don't tell the Romans, but the humble peach originated in China, where it is considered a symbol of longevity. It made its way to the West by caravan. As their empire expanded, the ancient Romans discovered the strange, velvet-skinned fruit in Persia, hence the botanical name prunus persica, or "Persian plum." They began cultivating it in the rich soils and warm climates of Italy's south. Over the centuries, Italy became the second-largest peach producing nation in the world—and one of its biggest consumers: dunking slices in dry white wine, swirling chunks into gelati and munching whole peaches as supper draws to a close.
But for me, the marriage of la pesca and its salty pecorino is sublime. Roman. Eternal.
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