Inspired by this lovely post and remembering my own successful version from years past, I decided that a dozen small, fragrant yellow peaches gently poached in white wine with Thai basil would be the perfect finish to a meal of this grilled chicken. Nothing could be simpler. Or more coolly satisfying on a sweltering summer night. Or more seductive, slipping down your throat with a little sweet syrup. Drop in a few fresh raspberries and top with a dollop of whipped cream, though this comes dangerously close to gilding the lily.
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If you don't like cooking, make sure you know how to shop. There are people who can pull together a wonderful dinner without ever lighting the stove. If you have access to lovely cheeses and charcuterie, fresh produce and a delectable bakery, you can simply act the part of curator, responsible only (but crucially) for the selection and arrangement of the perfect elements. A salade composée, or composed salad, is another variatiom on this theme. This French invention (if, in fact, anyone can really claim ownership)—a fitting combination of prescribed rules and laissez-faire—is a perfectly calibrated assortment of ingredients aesthetically arranged on a plate and drizzled with dressing, rather than tossed with it. (Though I'm not above tossing mine, if I feel it may be of benefit.) The most famous example is arguably the salade Niçoise, with its complementary hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, canned tuna, potatoes, olives and green beans. The most successful manage an artful balance of colors, flavors and textures and a pleasing architecture, like the ones currently featured on two of my favorite blogs—flavor in spades and hungry ghost—whose fertile creativity and gorgeous refinement continually amaze.
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A bowl of white peaches sat on the counter, their rosy, fuzzy curves as innocent and perfect as those of a child. Their sweet fragrance would waft towards me whenever I walked past and, after a few days, they hovered at that turning point of ripeness that demands attention. My freezer already held a bag of white peach purée, ready to recreate the bellini of my dreams, exemplified by that one on a freezing January day at the crowded, overheated bar at Harry's in Venice, surely among the most glamorous and decadent meals of my life. (When you go there, stick to bellinis and panini at the bar.) There were six peaches—too many to simply eat out of hand now that they were on the verge of going soft. How then to take advantage of these delicate creatures?
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