Image: http://www.bctree.com/images/photos/summer-peaches.jpgI’d been having this debate with my boyfriend the weekend before, about tomatoes. I squeeze, arguing one needs to test for ripeness. He doesn’t squeeze, not wanting everyone else’s fingers all over his take-home selection. We both felt strongly about this: I want the perfect tomato, he doesn’t want me bruising the goods.At another market stand that will remain unnamed, I reached in to test a peach. Very diplomatically, the vendor said, “Please let us handle the fruit.” I withdrew my offending hand. I haven’t been scolded like this before. The peach vendor had an unusual method for removing the peaches from their display. He seemed to reach past the ball of fruit, making the plastic it was cradled in crinkle noisily when his fingers made contact with it. He explained that he did not grasp the fruit using his fingertips, as their pressure would bruise the soft flesh, but lifted the peach, supporting it using the finger pads closer to the palm of his hand. Think of your hand as rounded construction device reaching in, and picking up an object not with the tips of sharp metal graspers, but cupping a delicate object on a curved, padded surface. For all this, the selected peach was not chin-drippingly juicy. But that was two weeks ago. We had the perfect ones yesterday afternoon from Pike Place Market. The peaches at Pike Place are meant to be eaten on the spot, and the odds in scoring a perfectly ripe specimen are very good. This Market vendor allowed me to touch the peach, but insisted on a paper bag to protect the fruit. Yesterday’s peaches tasted like, well, it seems an insult to say, but like peach-flavored Bubblicious bubble gum from my childhood. Such intense, over-the-top fruit flavor, so sweet, it was almost unreal. We rationed our four peaches: the second dose is for breakfast.