Paraguayos

The peach is always sweeter on the other side

The nectarine’s sweet juice dripped down my chin. “Damn. These are good.” I thought, admonishing myself for not appreciating them before.

Sometimes it really does take leaving and coming back with fresh eyes to appreciate what you have.

My favorite type of stone fruit is a paraguayo. That was the first word I learned for what in English might be called flat peach, donut peach, or Saturn peach.

I first encountered those oblong bursts of sweet juice while walking the Camino de Santiago in Spain. Over a decade ago now, I spent the month of July walking the long distance pilgrimage trail across Northern Spain, and paraguayos were a steadfast companion. Once discovered, I always had a few in the side pocket of my hiking backpack, ready for much needed trailside snacks.

One thing I remember from that time is the pure, unadulterated joy that the small things like a delicious peach, berries by the side of the trail, or figs picked right from a tree could bring. (That sentiment - remembering to derive joy from the small - inspired my one and only tattoo, an arrow like those showing you the way on the Camino.)

The yellow arrows show the way.

But none brought me more joy than a sweet paraguayo.

Upon moving back to the States, I was dismayed to discover that they were not so common, at least not where I live in New York State. When they appeared at all, the donut peaches I came across were anemic and their white flesh mealy, without the sweet bursts of flavor I was used to. Upon doing some research, I learned that there are good reasons for that. Flat peaches are more difficult to grow and their prized thin skin makes them more susceptible to disease. Above all, they require a different growing climate, with significantly more hours of sunshine, to develop their signature sweetness.

But before taking the time to learn all that, I simply whined and moaned that I couldn’t get my favorite fruit anymore. I piled it on with the lists of reasons that life was better in Spain.

Paraguayos upon paraguayos in Spain

This summer, I was in both France and England, and delighted in my beloved paraguayos once again. One evening, my boyfriend and I went to dinner at his (American) friend’s place in London. She had been living across the pond for many years, and naturally, we got to talking about the differences in the U.S. and the U.K. I shared my sadness about not being able to get paraguayos in the States. She laughed, and said that she missed the round yellow peaches that are common in the U.S., and wished she could get them more readily in the U.K.!

It was a true “grass is always greener” moment that stuck with me all the way through returning home. Upon stepping into my local co-op, I was happy to see that stone fruit season was still in full swing, and picked up some local yellow peaches, nectarines, and to my surprise, some flat peaches.

Yellow peach, nectarine, flat peach

Which brings us back full circle, to my lightbulb moment savoring that delicious nectarine. A nectarine that tasted just as good as the paraguayos I love so much.

Struck with this revelation, I began to muse and contemplate (because that’s what writers do, right?!).

Why had my love affair with paraguayos obscured my ability to enjoy other fruits for so long? The inability to obtain them at home in Buffalo surely contributed (we always want what we can’t have), but nostalgia assuredly played the largest role.

When I eat a paraguayo, it brings me back to walking the Camino. Anything associated with those five weeks walking across northern Spain was bound to have a special place in my heart.

Again there’s that inaccessibility: try as I might, I can never go back to that exact moment in time. But eating a paraguayo lets me try, transporting me back to what feels like a simpler time, when all I had to do was walk and enjoy. I wasn’t a homeowner, I wasn’t worried about finding (or creating) a job, and the world didn’t feel like it was falling apart at the seams. There was a blissful lightness in every step I took.

But living in the past, harkening back to “better times” doesn’t help one live in the here and now, something I’m actively trying my best to do. Maybe Spanish-grown paraguayos are the past, and local nectarines are my present. Both can be enjoyed and savored, with an appreciation for what they are without establishing a hierarchy. I can enjoy a paraguayo when I’m privileged enough to return to Europe for a visit, and delight in nectarines and yellow peaches when I’m at home.

Paraguayos in Spain, yellow peaches in New York

I once read about an Indian man whose daughter had tried to get him to come visit her in New York City, where she’d recently moved. Her mistake? Inviting him during peak mango season in their home region. He refused to come. He didn’t want to miss out on his favorite time of year, when the mangos were at their best. He couldn’t care less about seeing the Big Apple. All he wanted were his mangos.

That’s a man who is content where he is, a quality that this restless soul deeply admires. Sometimes I wonder whether I should stop traveling so I’d stop being presented with the different lives I could be living. The grass is always greener. The peach is always sweeter.

But because I do think there is value in travel, and because I don’t want to stop, I want to mindfully appreciate both what other places have that my home does not, and what my home has that other places do not.

Take maple syrup. Here in New York State, we have it in spades. There are even two Maple Weekends in March where maple growers tap their trees, distill the syrup, and host lively pancake breakfasts (because pancakes are simply vehicles for the consumption of syrup, obviously).

Recently, a friend in Madrid was telling me about her epic odyssey across the city to procure a tiny bottle of maple syrup from the one store that sells it. I sent her back a picture of my fridge, with its two gallons of maple syrup and maple butter to boot.

So here’s to the nectarines, the yellow peaches, and maple syrup. If I had a kitchen, I’d bake up a crumble using all of them as a true testament to enjoying the local. (Just passed the year mark without a full kitchen. *cries home reno tears*) But as that’s still in progress, that’ll have to wait (hopefully just a couple of months longer). For now, I’ll keep enjoying my local stone fruits with a newfound appreciation, and eyes that value the green grass growing on this side of the fence.

Thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your experiences with this in the comments! What things do you appreciate about where you live? Or have you also struggled to appreciate them? I’m so curious about others’ experiences; any insights very welcome!