Get Out Your Peeler

Following the instincts of generations of Richmonders since Byrd saw the bend, I spent a July afternoon on Belle Isle.

With sandwiches from Nick's Market ("You don't want mayo, we don't give you mayo"), half of a perfectly ripe cantaloupe and an enormous bunch of red grapes, we found a shady rock and spread a beach towel.

With the burble of the rushing water nearby, we'd scored a sweet oasis away from the families and hardbodies

We'd purposely waited for late afternoon, knowing it would be easier parking and less competition for good rocks.

The people watching as we ate was superb.

It's a lot like the Folk Festival. Everybody comes to Belle Isle.

There was drama: two hat boys facing off in overly loud and inane obscenities, like "You Church Hill, pregnant f**k-off!" said to a guy.

Physical comedy: the guy walking slowly into the river with a cup of beer in his hand, only to go head over heels in a slippery spot. Bye bye, beer.

Adventure: rafting parties going earnestly by only to take a rock break a few yards ahead.

Curious: two guys walking their bikes through the river's edge, carefully staying in the water.

And heartwarming: a young mom sitting herself down in shallow water with her baby on her lap and doing endless water play to his great delight.

Since I'd been at the Rappahannock just this week and recalled how warm it had been, I was eager to compare the temperature of the James.

Right about the same, which is to say mighty warm.

We moved closer to rushing water, hoping it would be cooler, but mostly it just knocked into us, making us lose our footing.

Current aside, we stayed in for a good long while just enjoying being immersed in the wet.

Meanwhile, the crowds continued to disperse as the sun moved lower.

Eventually I put my shorts back on over my bathing suit and we ambled back over the footbridge, emitting that damp essence of summertime wet bodies.

I got asked about my evening's plans but hadn't decided yet. We'll see, I said.

Coming home, I was greeted by the pile of peaches I'd recently picked, here.

It was like being figuratively hit over the head by the back of my Richmond grandmother's hand (not that she ever did such a thing).

And just like that, instinct kicked in and I peeled off my shorts and began peeling peaches for ice cream.

They were so perfectly ripe that the skins came off almost in one piece, all but begging to be peeled.

It was 7:53 and there was still enough light in in the kitchen window to make peach ice cream.

And people ask me how I can love summer?

Until you've stood in your kitchen making peach ice cream wearing a bathing suit and covered in sticky peaches and cream plus sweat and river water from an afternoon at Belle Isle, you haven't experienced one of a Richmonder's distinct summer pleasures.

Who needs an apron?

And how many generations of Richmond woman have used a warm Saturday evening in July to make peach ice cream?

I think I may have figuratively proved my southern woman chops to my long-gone grandmother today.

But I also happen to think that if she had a choice of feeling boastful about my practicality or having a bowl of my peach ice cream, no one would ever hear about me from her lips.

Never underestimate the power of peach ice cream. Or how much of it will end up on your bathing suit.