Life is a peach

Yesterday I felt as squashed as these peaches. Downtrodden. Head bloody AND bowed.

The french team did to ours things that I blush to repeat. It was terrible.

I came back dejected, so dejected that I wasn´t even hungry. This is a bad sign. I never, ever, lose my appetite.
I walked into the kitchen, by force of habit. And remembered these peaches I´d bought.
I don´t know what they´re called in English. Here they´re "paraguayas", though my mother always says in Paraguay they call them "japonesas". Whatever.

When they´re really ripe, you can peel them with your hands. They´re best eaten standing at the kitchen counter. If they´re good, and beleive me, these were, the juice will dribble down your chin, and also down your arm. It´s messy, but so good.

I went to bed feeling a little better. Still squashy, but uplifted by the thought that our football players aren´t much good, but when it comes to fruit, we can show the French what´s what.

And then this morning I saw that Food&Wine has selected one of these posts in its Blog Watch as one of the top five.
Sensation, in brackets.
Now I feel like a full-blown velvety golden Calanda peach.
Ever so happy.