The Flavour That Got Away

Somewhere between memory and myth, there’s a peach I’ve never tasted again.

It was plucked from a tree at the bottom of a sandy Maltese garden, still warm from the afternoon sun. I didn’t climb for it—I was too small—but Bobby lifted me effortlessly, as if she’d done it a hundred times before. My fingers stretched and fumbled, then closed around what felt like the softest, heaviest fruit in the world. The skin yielded easily, and as I bit into it, the warm juice ran down my arm like honey.

I tried to chase it with my tongue, fast enough to catch it, slow enough not to miss the rest of the fruit. It was sweet and perfumed and almost too much—a collision of sunlight, sugar, and something older than language.

Bobby laughed and told me I looked like a street urchin who hadn’t eaten in days. She wasn’t wrong. in hindsight, my response should have been ”That may be… but I had just tasted something that was surely fit for a king! “ but as a five-year-old street urchin, I simply smiled.

And I still believe it.

Food as a Memory That Bites Back

There’s something about childhood food memories that resists replication. It’s not just taste—it’s context. The peach wasn’t special because of its sugar content. It was special because someone I loved lifted me to reach it, because the juice was warm from the sun, not chilled from the fridge. Because that bite happened at exactly the moment when the world still felt perfectly safe.

And I’ve never been able to recreate it.

Not for lack of trying. I’ve grilled peaches, poached them, roasted them with almond crumb and vanilla cream—just like Madam Blanc used to, with that unmistakable scent that Bobby swore could be smelled all the way back in Marseille. The recipes are right. The technique is sound. But the flavour always falls short.

Because it’s not about the peaches.

What We’re Really Trying to Taste

That’s the trick of food nostalgia, isn’t it? We think we’re chasing a dish. But what we’re really chasing is a feeling that no longer fits the present day.

I wasn’t just biting into fruit—I was biting into a moment of absolute presence. No deadlines, no digital distractions, no adult palate evaluating acidity or ripeness. Just sensation, joy, and sugar on my skin.

That’s what got away.

Why It Still Matters

The older I get, the more I realise: nostalgia isn’t about reclaiming the past—it’s about honouring its echoes. I may never find that exact peach again, but I carry the imprint of it. In every bite of ripe fruit, in every effort to cook something slowly, generously, for someone I care about.

That one peach—just one—became a kind of internal compass. A sensory reminder of warmth, generosity, and a kitchen where people laughed while they cooked, and no one measured out affection in teaspoons.

The Aftertaste of Memory

In the evenings, after dinner, Madam Blanc would serve her roasted peaches—halved, bubbling, topped with crushed almonds and oats. We’d scrape at the corners of the dish to catch the last of the syrup, and somehow, I always seemed to win the final spoonful. I’m sure it was rigged. That’s what kindness looked like back then.

I’d walk home with sticky lips, down sun-bleached Maltese streets, already wondering how soon I could have that taste again.

But even then, part of me knew—some flavours only come once.

A Quiet Invitation

If there’s a food memory you carry—something imperfect, fleeting, unrepeatable—don’t try too hard to recreate it. Try instead to remember the shape of the moment it held.

And if you happen to be lucky enough to eat something that makes you close your eyes for a second and pause—let the juice run down your arm.

Some things aren’t meant to be contained.