One of the magical things I love about living in the suburbs is the peach tree.
I credit my realtor with pointing it out when we first looked at the property back in 2013. At that point, my agriculture knowledge was basically "Vegetables grow outside and that's best." So when we walked outside, he made a comment along the lines of oh, there's a peach tree.
I figured it was ornamental. Because really, who on earth has their very own peach tree and lives just 20 minutes from the city?
That first year, I went away for a conference (to Atlanta, ironically) and came back to find a decent number of cute little peaches.
The second year was the year of the Polar Vortex. Whomp whomp. The poor buds froze before they even had a chance.
The third year, a handful again. Nothing substantial, but hey, I couldn't complain.
Nothing last year. I realized that maybe I was just going to get a harvest every other year. Cool. I could live with that.
This year? OMG. So many peaches.
It is by far the best harvest I've ever had. And indeed, this is the first year that I've seen the branches of the tree actually bend under the weight of all the fruit.
The first Peach Day this year? I picked 50 pounds worth of peaches. In one day, I picked more peaches than I've ever gotten from that tree.
These peaches will basically become my main source of fruit and fruit-related items over the fall and winter (the apple tree isn't quite up to snuff yet). Jam, ice cream, cobbler, and of course, regular frozen peaches.
The new few weekends will be loads of work for sure, but it's worth it.
I feel like what surprises people is the extent to which I am into gardening.
Especially when it's compounded with my usual concerns about summer, and then all of those concerns about food.
But what gardening has been successful in doing is getting be to be interested more in food as a concept.
I don't keep it a secret that yes, I do do food. But for me, the conflict comes in that I need to actually be interested in the food.
And if I don't buy in to something, or I'm not inspired by it, or it's not part of my normal-as-safe routine? Well, that's when part of the challenge comes in. Compounded by the fact that there are all of those complicated rules on top.
Including that whole "I don't like to eat out of season food" thing.
Like, it turns out that prosciutto and honeydew? It really is as fantastic a combination as Pinterest would have you believe. Which I probably wouldn't have discovered if I hadn't grown honeydew this year.
I've only eaten it before in my adult-on-my-own-food-buying-life as a fruit cup, and never would have thought to just buy a whole one in a store.
But picking it from the garden? That makes it harmless. I grew it from seed, and I know what it's been through, and I know that nothing's been added to it or sprayed on it beyond my usual maintenance.
The blackberries have been a fun experiment this year that actually provided me with breakfast throughout the year.
Because you've got to do something with 2.5 pounds of blackberries, so scones it is! Especially when I like baked goods. I know what's in these, and I know how many calories. They're safe.
Ditto with the peaches. I rarely bought them before when I lived in New York, since it's hard to get locally grown peaches up there. And when I did, I'd can and preserve them.
Now that I have a peach tree? Peach Day -- that day in the middle of August when the peaches are ready to go -- is one of the best times of the year. And then there's jam, and ice cream, and cobbler, and peaches to actually eat.
Gardening not only helps with the fruit consumption. It also means that throughout the year, I know there's stuff in my freezer that I can trust.
The eggplants and peppers are doing their things, and so are the tomatoes. Soon, it'll be at the point where I can prep stewed tomatoes and eggplant parm.
Food to keep me good through the winter, and until the season starts again next spring.
And thus I've upped the odds that if nothing else, there is at least something in my freezer that my garden has made brave and safe enough to eat.
Really, who doesn't?
Spending the day at the beach got me thinking about it again. How other people carry and wear suits. What their comfort level is. What styles are coming back. What styles really should go away.
In many ways, I thank my size as child and teen for making me likely less paranoid and less cautious about wearing a swimsuit in public.
I was never anything resembling petite. Not fat, by clinical standards, but not petite. I carry my weight in my torso. Bikinis were never a thing that could happen for me. And, when you're a not-petite person doing varsity swim, you quickly accept that OK, everyone's going to stare at the fat girl in the pool, so wear the damn suit and get over it.
Even after high school, it wasn't that I didn't care, as much as I accepted the reality. I was fat. But I liked to swim. So a swimsuit had to happen.
I switched to tankinis when I went on the pump. I'm cool with showing the pump and its tubing when I'm in the pool, but I don't want to be an on-display diabetic when I'm at the beach, or generally just relaxing.
And that's when a difference started happening.
For some reason, in my head, a one-piece racing suit is different. It's going to cling, and you're going to see lumps, and that's just the nature of a suit.
But tankinis by nature are tanks. They've got leeway to cover and drape, and thus, I had always bought them on the larger side.
Fast forward to this January. I knew that new tankinis needed to happen (so did new Speedos, but that's a different ball of drama and wax, since Speedo sizing is inconsistent ... but at least you know that going into it, and they do online returns easily). So I bought a few from Lands End during a sale, and figured that OK, lots of sizes, and return to Sears what didn't work.
Oy. For the first time in my life, I was confronted with the reality that OK, the hips are a 4, but the waist is an 8. And that the pictures on sale sites show people wearing suits that are much closer to their actual size than what I'd been wearing.
So I picked out a few, kept them, and promptly shoved them in a drawer.
Until the weekend of the Presque Isle Half Marathon. I went with what at the time felt like the best option, and tossed it in my bag.
Pro tip: When you try to wear a swimsuit after a half marathon with an upset stomach, where there is endless boob sweat, and everything hurts, no suit will ever feel sexy.
I came home and sulked.
And resolved to try it again.
So last Sunday, before going to the beach, I tried the options again. This time, I realized that OH, right, boob sweat. And found a combination that worked, and I happily put it on and went to the beach.
Where I proceeded to people watch. And saw that even though I feel like my torso must always be covered, there were lots of people with worse abs than I wearing bikinis, and seeming perfectly happy with it. None of them with pumps, of course, but with all of those lumps and bumps that I always feel are a public indicator of how fat I am.
And there were people who were bigger than I was wearing bikinis, and seeming to give absolute zero fucks.
Do I think I'll ever be comfortable in a bikini? No.
But I am envious of the people who can be.
The news drama -- well, drama lite, I suppose -- about "cosmopolitan bias" got me thinking again about that trip to Ohiopyle last month.
(And I'll put it out here: I detest the current administration. I'm not defending the use of the phrase or the tactic.)
I was on my way to a Venture Outdoors trip, and passed a sign on a realtor's office about buying a second home in that region.
The Laurel Highlands/Ohiopyle region is gorgeous. Honestly, having a home in the middle of that gorgeousness wouldn't be hard on the eyes.
But the thought that crossed my head?
"Yeah, but then I'd have to live here, and UGH."
The more I drove, the angrier I got. I kept thinking about how it's such a beautiful area, and it's currently so well protected, and OMG the people who live there surely can't appreciate it because OMG they voted for that idiot who wants to see the entire country go to a polluted wasteland again.
Well, there's my cosmopolitan bias for you.
You know something? I'll own it.
In certain areas of this state, I give some serious side eye and distrust to those who aren't from the metropolitan areas. It's not that I think they don't know any better, and I'm not saying that everyone is provincially minded. But I have a hard time grasping how you can live in a natural, gorgeous area ... and want to do absolutely nothing to protect it.
Which then eventually leads to me just getting grumpier and grumpier, knowing how those areas tend to vote, and then vowing and declaring that I may go there to hike and sunbathe, but only in small amounts, and I certainly would never live there.
I think it's the years of living in northern New York, coupled with the intense bullying in middle school, junior high school, and high school, that built this bias. When you're made to feel like it's a horrible outcast to be smart and want more, then you start harboring some serious distrust and downward looking at those who come from that background who treat you that way. Which eventually colors into how you interact with others from similar backgrounds.
AKA: How bias forms.
And really? I should know better. I should do better.
I can do better.
The funny thing, I suppose, is that I initially hadn't planned on doing this race Friday night.
I'd gotten entrance to the Liberty Mile as part of a triple-registration deal when I signed up for the Pittsburgh half marathon, and the EQT 10-miler. I figured I didn't necessarily care about this short little race, but it made the registrations for the other two races price out to be super cheap. And I got a free pint glass when I did the "megaticket" at the marathon's expo in May.
So the plan was to bail on this one, since it wasn't that far after Presque Isle, and really, why bother.
But then they said there would be free beer.
And, well, I like beer.
Of course, it was threatening rain before the race. And it was humid. And then it started sprinkling. But there was a Starbucks by the start line, so I grabbed an iced coffee, and then waited.
The official story was that I didn't really have a time goal. But of course, me being me, I had my secret goals.
The realistic? To do sub-11, since I was hitting that sometimes in training runs.
The stretch? To do sub-10, since I didn't think I could actually run a mile in less than 10 minutes.
I felt bad for any of the kids in my vicinity when I passed the timing signal at the 1/4 mile mark.
2:45
My response? "Holy shit."
Because me? I'm not a runner. And in my head, even without looking at my Apple Watch and Runkeeper, I knew that that time was something I'd never hit before.
And then I just kept going.
Much to my amazement, Runkeeper recorded my time as 9:25, and the official chip time was 9:26 (I think Runkeeper must have started right after I crossed the start line).
Blown. Away. I have quite literally never run any distance that fast in my life.
So I finished, managed to change into skinny jeans in my car (without getting arrested for indecent exposure, which tells me the universe must have liked me Friday night), and went to grab that dinner and a free beer.
And happily checked the official results when I got home.
To my happy surprise, I was solidly in the middle of the pack again for age/gender, gender, and overall.
Apparently I can haul ass when free beer is at the end of the race.
