I’ll never eat my favourite dessert again.
This is not because I wouldn’t love to, I would love to.
It’s because my favourite dessert of all time requires something that doesn’t exist any more.
When I was a kid my father grew peaches from seed. There’s a bit a knack to doing this – the secret is to crack the hard peach pit and extract the tender kernal and grow the peach tree from there. Because the seedling has been cross-fertilised it’s likely to be highly variable. Lots of less than perfect peaches.
Occasionally, when the moon and the stars are just right, an amazing new perfect peach gets born to the delight of one and all. My father was the right man at the right place, at the right time and patiently grew the right peach.
It was a superb, succulent white peach, freestone (which means the stone comes out easily like a nectarine), richly fragrant and very, very tasty. I was able to pick the peaches, tree ripened, and warmed by the sun, and make peach melbas for us.
Peach melbas. So fabulous they named an opera singer after them. Scoops of icecream, fresh warm peaches, a squirt or two of berry sauce, and a sprinkling of chopped nuts. *Bliss*.
Sadly, the neighbours had diseased trees and Dad’s tree became infected with silver blight, and died. We were all saddened by the loss of such a superb tree. Nothing to compare with the passing of my father though. Even though it’s just a dessert, I’d give anything to make Dad a peach melba.