Oh yeah, it's on, baby!
Singer-songwriter Jeff Finlin was a fixture on the local music scene a decade ago, before he decided to pack his bags and move to Colorado. But the South just kept calling his name, in no small part, because of our more — excuse the pun — fruitful peach season. So in April, he moved back to Nashville. Read Jeff's lusty ode to the ultimate summertime fruit below, and check out more about his new album My Moby Dick and book of poetry Time Less Travel here. And here's a Critics' Pick about Finlin's album release show in May.
Note to reader: Even though fruit is the name given to those plants which have an ovary used for food, and throughout history the peach has been a frequent metaphor for the female genitalia, in no way during the course of this writing can the peach be misconstrued as such. In other words, if that’s what you are thinking, you are the one with the dirty mind.
The first bite of the season is always the most sensuous. The anticipation is heart-stopping. As the first bit of furry delight tickles your upper lip you can almost taste the orgy of nature’s promise before it hits your taste buds and washes down the back of your throat. You’ve been waiting all year for this bounty of your longing. You pierce the skin and the juices explode. As they drip down your chin the pleasure is almost unimaginable. The mind is overpowered by the connection to the flesh of nature itself. You can taste the sweetness; the satisfaction. The sunshine bursts through your head. Intertwined, you can taste the energy squirting back on itself. You moan with delight. It’s a miracle. The edge of the cosmos is at hand, and you feel you can just go ahead and die now. It’s like prom night minus the back seat of that '72 Maverick.
It’s love … yes??
No.
It’s the first summer peach.
