Saffron Roasted Peaches with Honeyed Mascarpone and Walnut Sugar

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky

They walk the cobblestone road in Old Town Alexandria, on their way to her car, having finished dinner on Queen Street. Their voices remain intimately low, their conversation meant to be private. They walk in close proximity but do not touch; it doesn’t matter anyway because they are already halfway to falling in love and they do not need contact to feel connected. He gave her a book of poetry earlier, because he recited its title poem to her last night over a chess game; and she asked him to inscribe it, which he did, using her proffered fountain pen. He doesn’t yet realize that the gesture is significant: she has never lent a fountain pen to anyone, not even family. He’s different; she knows this even after a few days’ acquaintance.

“Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats / Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels / And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells,” he says, glancing back at the restaurant they have just left, its scalloped awning curving in the dusk.

He is waging an impress-seduce-and-capture campaign. He is winning because the war is effectively null, the enemy having been captivated since the first skirmish. She, phone call, post-party at which his presence was expected, and missed: “Emil, you coward, you left me to the mercy of dumb blondes who can’t discuss British literature or chess games.” Pause on the other end. Then: “Oh, hello Cath.” His smile is vivid over a telephone line.

In the poem, Prufrock seems to be on the verge of declaring his feelings for a lover -- he muses about lying next to her and wanting to "force the moment to its crisis"; but he does not, consumed by fears of inadequacies he imagines others whispering about him. He declares he's a secondary player, not the hero of the story; and the poem finishes on melancholy water images and Prufrock's sense of isolation.

“In the room, the women come and go, Talking of Michelangelo. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall.” Now he’s out of sync, simply quoting lines as they suit him. She smiles at him and urges him to keep going.

“Do I dare to eat a peach?”

He stops suddenly and grabs her arm with one hand, the other pushing at her shoulder, spinning her around to show her something across the street. And when they finish their revolution and turn back to where they started, and he drops his hands, she sighs.

Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...

“What a disappointment,” she says, unlocking her car door.

“What’s that?”

“I thought you were going to kiss me.”

His expression is inscrutable; but the eyes dance. “Do I dare disturb the universe?”

It’s quite all right: they kiss the next day; and many days thereafter; and on their second anniversary, he gives her a hardback version of that book of poetry. In the inscription, he tells her that unlike Mr. Prufrock, he lives every day daring to disturb the universe with his beloved wife by his side.
______________________________

Peaches, I think to myself on Monday. It’s summer. I’ve got this book of poetry I’ve been reading and there’s this line that makes me think of peaches and I think I should make roasted peaches. Hubby’s coming home tonight and something special is in order.

I've been reading mouthwatering recipes for peaches on all these different blogs the last few weeks, envying those who have Frog Hollow Farms within reach. Roasted peaches sound perfect. Do I know how to make them? Have I ever made them? No, of course not. That would actually make sense.

So here I am in Georgia, home state of peaches. I go to my grocery store and what do they have? California peaches. Not the good ones, but the mutant ones. I'm utterly baffled. I'm also cantankerous: with the current gas situation, I'm happily carpooling with Hubby, but it also means that the bi-monthly trips to Atlanta to go to the Farmer's Market are now a thing of the past. I also can't go cruising to the various fruit and vegetable farms in the area because they're still a little ways out on these little Georgia roads and I'm really trying to stick close to home. The nearest fresh vegetable and fruit stand to me is fifteen miles away at Callaway Gardens, but their selection is usually pot luck. What I want are perfumed, golden red, ripe peaches; so the hunt begins. You can't tell me I live in Georgia and can't find a local peach.
______________________________

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.

Cassandra to my Jane, she is therefore as dear as any of the others who occupy this role. My Cassandra has been disappointed by a man. She is heartbroken. A day ago, he was salvation; today, it’s entirely likely that he’s a disciple of Mephistopheles. She asked me if it was possible that she had misconstrued his gestures, infused them with meaning when there was none? Could her instincts have been so wrong? I do not think she could have been so deluded; because he has invited intimacy by nearly every action. He could be clueless but we do not think so; he's too attuned to her. Is he simply cruel then? We certainly hope not; he's been so tender with her.

I hold her hands in mine and she looks at me uncertainly. She wonders if she is crazy. But just because one shares the name, one does not necessarily share the curse or the fate: the truth is what she saw and the truth is what we heard when she told us. He came bearing gifts and she wanted to beware but could not resist that Trojan ploy. Impress. Seduce. Capture.

Eyes can see, eyes can decipher, eyes can reveal, eyes can't deceive. Her eyes are wide and wet, though not red. I envy her. She's beautiful when she cries. I look like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

The question that echoes in her brain like a sonic boom is skipping on the same groove: “Why? Why? Why?”

There are so many possible explanations and theories; here is another: he's no Prince Hamlet, he's an attendant lord. He's Prufrock, measuring life out by the coffee spoons and wondering, would it have been worth it, after all?

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

That’s the problem with Prufrock ultimately. As Hubby points out, “He’s a chicken****.”
______________________________

...Do I dare to eat a peach?

I found the peaches finally. They look like a sunset. Here's the recipe.

Saffron Roasted Peaches with Honeyed Mascarpone and Walnut Sugar

2 ripe peaches, cut in half and pitted
4 T butter (one for each peach half)
4 teapsoons Turbinado (cane) sugar
1/4 cup clear dessert wine, stock syrup or sweet white wine like a dry Riesling
Saffron threads for each peach half and a pinch of saffron for the syrup
1/3 cup mascarpone cheese
3 T honey
2 T walnuts, crushed
1 T Turbinado (cane) sugar

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Heat the stock syrup (or dessert wine or white wine) in a pot. (I was lazy and didn't want to make stock syrup so I just used a sweet white wine.) Add a pinch of saffron. When it begins to boil, remove it from the heat and pour it into a roasting pan. Place the peaches, cut side up, in the roasting pan. Sprinkle each half with 1 t sugar, a few threads of saffron, and dot with 1 tablespoon of butter.

Roast on the middle rack for 25 minutes.

In the meantime, mix mascarpone cheese and honey together.

Crush the walnuts (I put them in a a ziploc bag and use my rolling pin to crush them) and add the sugar.

Remove the roasted peaches from the oven. Let the peaches sit for about 2 minutes before plating. Spoon some of the saffron syrup from the roasting pan on the peaches. Top with honeyed mascarpone and sprinkle with walnut sugar.

Comments

[tanvi]

that. sounds. outstanding. the saffron, peaches, etc were all great but you got me with the walnut sugar- what a great idea!

[Cath]

Tanvi, the saffron was actually a last minute substitution because I couldn't find vanilla, but it worked out amazingly well. I was really pleased with the results. I have a bowl of the walnut sugar so now I've got to figure out what to do with it (it didn't occur to me at the time that I wouldn't need a cup of walnut sugar for four peach halves). :-)

[hildjj]

Sure, the peaches sound yummy, but so was the story. Nice match.

[beastmomma]

That was really beautiful and enganging.

[Cath]

Joe: We need to get together soon to cook...

Jaspreet: thank you so much.