I pulled the peeler through that barely resistant skin, and the scent spiraled up to hit me with this – Mom.  4913425862

Many, many summers Mom and I made peach jam.  We’d peel and dice, boil and sugar.  Then, she’d skim off the foam – my favorite part of any jam – and we’d put up tiny jars of orange light.

It’s the only time I ever ate peaches.

So today, when I took the beautiful fruit that P and I picked up from the local orchard yesterday, when I gripped it into my fingers and sliced, I was overcome with that memory – me dropping jars back into the hot water bath, the “need” to lick up spilled droplets on the edge of the counter, Mom’s laugh.

It’s a sweet – tinged at the edge with pain – memory. One for which I am grateful on this Father’s Day morning when I make muffins scented with laughter and cinnamon for all the men I love.

If you’re interested, here’s the muffin recipe I used.