It's wonderful how foods can carry fond memories. For me, peaches immediately conjure up a scene of over 45 years ago in Windsor Locks, Connecticut. My maternal grandparents were Polish immigrants, and their mini-farm was a gastronomic playground.

My grandmothers’ cooking was fueled by my grandfathers’ ability to raise flavorful produce and other delicacies that scented the kitchen.

But, when August rolled around, the kitchen was the farthest thing from my mind.

Instead, I would beg my Uncle Bob to park his old Chevy under the sprawling peach tree by the tiny gray garage. We'd then climb to the roof of that precious old car and pick the ripe peaches that clung to the branches.

I can still remember that sweet heavenly aroma wafting from their golden, fuzzy wrapper. Tinges of red illuminated the skin giving it a soft, jewel-like appearance. Beneath it laid the treasure; rich, orange gold flesh, bursting with flavors, practically overburdened with succulent juices.

Even now, I distinctly remember how those sweet juices ran down my arm, dripped off my elbow and made a tiny pool in the dent we created in the roof of that old car. The pleasures continued when the thick and glistening flesh gave way to the pit, encased in a red crown that was detached from the stone.

My appreciation and love of this fruit has not waned through my years. I still crave peach ice cream, indulge in peach jam and savor peach salsa and peach nectar. Those delightful and carefree days of gorging on fresh picked, homegrown peaches are not lost. My wife Debbie and I planted 2 dwarf peach trees 3 years ago. And, this summer, we picked baskets of fresh peaches from those trees. I get chills when I think about it.

Peaches, I love them.