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Last week when I went blueberry picking, I also brought home a quart of imperfect nectarines for $2. I could have gotten more perfectly formed specimen for twice the price, but I decided not to judge the fruit based on its outward appearance and went for a basket of marked and marred. It was a good buy, as they had incredible flavor. They were, however, also incredibly ripe and by yesterday were in need of some sort of speedy use or processing. Still overwhelmed by the zucchini muffins and lemon blueberry cake, I decided I couldn't handle another baked good in my apartment. I went the easy way and cut the remaining dozen of them into wedges and froze them on a cookie tray that I balanced precariously in my overstuffed freezer.

I now have a large bag of locally grown nectarine chunks in my freezer. I imagine I'll used them on a chilly, overcast day in November, when juicy summer fruit is a distant memory. On some very minor level, I feel a sense of satisfaction similar to that which I imagine women of another century often experienced, after a long day of canning the fruits of their kitchen gardens, so that they'd have fruits and veggies throughout the winter.