Millions of peaches (but no peaches for me)

In planning my birthday-present trip to Michigan, I had very few criteria in mind. I wanted to stay in some sort of bed and breakfast, preferably one with a shady front porch where I could sit and read. I wanted to eat plenty of baked goods. And I wanted to pick some sort of fruit.

Suburban girl that I am, I've always had this romantic image of fruit picking. Blueberries for Sal was one of my favorite books as a kid. As a suburban girl, I'm also pretty fuzzy on the actual mechanics, although I have a feeling that being out in a field in the middle of August is probably not quite as much fun as I'm picturing. I was also a little vague on the type of fruit to be picked--strawberry season is definitely over; cherries had all but disappeared from the farmer's market. Blueberries, perhaps?

This past weekend was the long-awaited trip. On Saturday afternoon we took a vineyard tour at the Fenn Valley Winery, but alas, grape-picking was not part of the tour. After much tasting and buying, we headed back down the highway toward our bed and breakfast and were immediately confronted by an array of homemade signs advertising "U-Pick Peaches." It seemed like fate. I've been eating peaches obsessively for weeks. And peaches grow on trees, much like apples, the only fruit I've actually retrieved from its native habitat. Something I already knew how to do--an added bonus!

We followed the signs down a meandering lane, past orchards full of trees, and parked our car in the gravel lot. We approached the tent and were handed an empty bushel bag. Remembering a recommendation from one of the vendors at our local farmer's market, we inquired about the availability of Red Haven peaches.

No Red Havens, the man with the bag told us. And, in fact, today we would be doing our picking from a crate.

I may be a suburban girl, but even I know that peaches don't grow in crates. And in my admittedly limited understanding, selecting your fruit from a container is not called "picking"; it's called "grocery shopping."

So we left Michigan peach-free. I had hoped to stumble across another U-Pick place or at least a roadside stand on our way out of town, but it wasn't to be.

However, the rest of my criteria were amply met. We stayed in a really lovely old Victorian house with a huge wraparound porch. With a swing, no less. I spent several very happy hours reading there after our fruitless fruit quest. I also drank my coffee out there both mornings.

The B&B also featured a communal cookie jar, stocked every morning with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and conveniently located next to the staircase up to our room. On Saturday night I actually ate cookies and drank tea while sitting in a hot bath. You can't get much better than that.

So in every way but one, it was a perfect weekend. And yesterday on my lunch hour I stopped by the Federal Plaza farmer's market for my weekly peach fix. They taste almost as good as if I'd picked them myself. And at least I didn't have to strain my back retrieving them from a crate.