Chill Hours

Stone fruit grow best where winter months dip close to the freezing point. Chill hours, it’s called. 800 to 1,200 hours—three to four months—of nights that fall between 34- and 40-degrees Fahrenheit. Rain in the early spring just when the buds begin to grow, before the blossoms open up. Bees to alight on the blooms, their sticky legs spreading pollen. Sun hitting during the growing days of spring. 75 to 80 degrees, not too hot or the skin will be scorched. I pull off the road on the southern edge of Santa Clara, the valley that used to be known for its fruit and not electronics, onto the dirt shoulder of a stretch of pavement that is more rural than highway, to a wooden stand. If the fruit has been picked at just the right moment, the skin will be smooth and shiny, the flesh sweet and warm. But too soon and the sun will not have sugared the fruit. Too late and the rot appears on the edges, infecting all the other bits connected in the bowl. The season is short, only weeks some years, and then it takes 7,728 hours for the window to open again. I want to move out of the cold, away from the icy mornings, the sharpness of winter, to step away from homeness, momness, wifeness, to have a moment to be something fresh and glowing. It has been a year since I last saw Charles pick a fruit from the pile, turn it around in his mouth, carefully remove the pit from the flesh. The sun shines on me from his eyes, but only for brief minutes that add up to less than a cherry season, and I wait, I wait for the sweetness to fill me before bitter overcomes me again. I cannot resist the taste when it arrives at the starting edge of summer, and I deserve some warmth.

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