Like me, my friend Sam is a lifelong Californian. Like me and, I suspect, many lifelong Californians 50 and over, Sam had given up on ever tasting a ripe apricot again. When I was a kid, tree-ripened apricots were as much a part of summer as riding bikes to swim in the municipal plunge every day or taking turns cranking the ice cream freezer in the backyard. These sweet, jammy gems were second only to ripe figs for what I later came to realize was vaginal lusciousness. They disappeared, as best I can recall, in the early 70s, mainly, I suspect, because markets grew more and more distant from sources. A ripe apricot is difficult to ship, so they're picked green and hard. Unfortunately, unlike peaches, apricots don't ripen after they're picked.
Like an obsessive birder set on finding a nesting pair of ivory-billed woodpeckers, I kept hope alive, searching down the decades: farmers markets, expensive boutique groceries, Napa Valley fruitstands. Nothing came close. When Sam called last Saturday morning, the urgency in his terse message was unmistakable: "Alemany Farmers Market. South row, far west end. Apricots of yore. Hurry!"
I drove down immediately and ran into Sam. He pointed to the stand and instructed, "Ask for a sample. They'll give you a whole one." I did, they did, and I bought 2 pounds. Yesterday, I bought 6 pounds. Forgot the price. Who cares?
I don't believe in hoarding treasure. And so I am obliged to report Sam's historic rediscovery. I apologize for my delay, since apricot season comes early in the summer and does not linger. The Alemany wonders are from Modesto. And they're also a variety called "Modesto," a distinction that both amused the farmer selling them and made him proud. As he deserves to be.
For eating fresh, choose the soft, even mushy, ones. For baking, any will do. Store in the reefer, but do not eat them cold; God's in his heaven...all's right with the world!
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