The Ripest Peach is the Highest One

I rounded up a peach posse today and headed west to an orchard at the foot of a mountain.

Of course my companions were restaurant people because who else would be off on a Monday?

I drew the short straw and had to play driver, but other than having to listen to other people's road trip CDs (Fleetwood Mac and INXS, wtf?), it was a pretty perfect day.

An hour and a half later, we pulled into Chiles Peach Orchard under a beautiful blue sky with puffy little clouds hanging over the mountaintop.

We had our choice of picked fruit or picking our own, but why drive all that way and not spend time in the orchards?

The trees were laden with picture-perfect fruit (and many pictures were taken by my cohorts) and the ground covered in peaches in various stages of decomposition.

We agreed that we were in no hurry (in fact, that became the mantra of the day) and took our time walking up and down rows of trees to admire them before picking a single peach.

Because I am allergic to peaches, I picked just enough to make peach ice cream and have a peach every other day for a week.

Let's hope it doesn't kill me.

I've been making peach ice cream every summer since I can remember, but this will be the first time with peaches I picked.

For the record, I expect great things.

After the others had gathered enough to suit them, we headed back to the orchard shop to have them weighed.

Part of our motivation in going had been that they also have a dairy shop with fresh peach milkshakes. Yes, we're that shallow.

The sign at the window said they were out of chocolate flavor today. My question would be, who cares?

And who would buy a small peach milkshake instead of a large?

None of us. We took ours out to the porch and sat under the pergola enjoying the richness of peaches and cream while admiring the mountain view.

We were debating whether or not to go pick another kind of peaches, the flat donut peaches, which tend to be even sweeter than the round varieties.

Why not? We weren't in any hurry.

So we wandered up the road to those trees and gathered donut peaches. One of my posse had never even had them before.

Back in the shop, we continued our peach bliss. I got peach cider donuts and one of us got a peach cider slushie.

At that point we knew we were losing our grip on reality and needed to escape the peach fumes before we also bought peach butter or peach pie.

Luckily, we weren't far from what Food Network Magazine had recently dubbed the best pizza in Virginia.

Crozet Pizza, a local mainstay for decades, was next on our agenda.

The unprepossessing building in an old strip center with no separation from the road was everything we hoped it would be.

It was small, dusty, and crowded with the detritus of 35 years in business; the server and pizza maker welcomed us as we walked in.

And they would know about everyone's arrival because a piece of rope is tied to the front door, strung across the ceiling and connected to a bell directly over the tiny kitchen.

I am such a fan of that kind of anti-technology. Even better, they take no plastic. These were my kind of people.

The place was tiny with a focus on one thing: pie. A sign hangs over the counter making that perfectly clear: "NO Pizza, NO Beer!"

But we did want pizza, so getting a Star Hill was not a problem. The hard part was sifting through the list of toppings.

We decided that the oddest were snow peas and peanuts, neither of which we wanted.

FNM had cited their white pizza with mushrooms on a perfectly chewy crust as the best of the best, but we weren't going to let them be the boss of us.

We got a large white (garlic, herbs, onion and olive oil) but with tomatoes and spinach instead of fungus.

It was an outstanding pizza in every way. We took our time with it, even taking breaks to admire the wall of photos of people in far-flung places wearing their red "Crozet Pizza" t-shirts.

The funniest one was the naked couple at a nudist camp, holding one XL t-shirt in front of their birthday suits. Judging by their hair styles, we guessed it was a late 70s gem.

It was clear from the stream of people coming in to pick up pies that this place has a devoted following and with good reason.

Naturally the restaurant types with me ended up talking to the pizza maker since he was so close to our booth and kitchen people love to commiserate with each other.

Leaving, my cohorts agreed that I'd made a terrific suggestion for eating post-picking.

Hey, I may not watch Food Network (okay, any TV), but it was a gamble that paid off. Anyway, I'd read it.

Our last stop was Blue Mountain Brewery, partly for the beer lover in our group and partly so we could sit outside and admire the view before nightfall.

I hadn't been in a couple of years and weather had prohibited an outdoor meal then.

Today, we found a table outside, shaded and facing the mountain, and settled in for some conversation and libations.

Blue Mountain's wine list is short (duh, they're a brewpub) with just a half dozen Virginia wines.

I chose today's special, the Flying Fox Rose, made with Cab Franc and Merlot in a traditional style and pleasantly refreshing on a hot evening.

Beer Geek opted to taste something he hadn't seen before, the Big D.I.P.A, a double IPA that billed itself as less bitter than many IPAs.

Wait, aren't IPAs known for their bitterness? It must have been plenty hoppy enough because he ended up ordering it.

And we ended up lingering, talking about everything and nothing, quaffing our Virginia bevvies as my car filled up with the heady scent of fresh-picked peaches.

On the drive home, my posse was already asking me to start planning another road trip for a future Monday off.

I'll just how to figure out how to top peaches, pizza and pink. Not to mention donuts, milkshakes and Big DIPAs.

Bet I can.

But I won't be driving and we will not be listening to music from the last century.

Planning must have its privileges.