I am almost embarrassed to admit to you just how many peaches I brought home from that roadside stand on Friday.

Because if you are thinking a bushel or two would be a lot you would be right.

And then if I suggested three bushels or God forbid four, well that would teeter on the edge of bonkers.

Four bushels. Humph.

But then if I told you there were already two bushels in the freezer for winter smoothies and treats and four more came home, well, I suspect that my peach issue would cease to be charmingly eccentric and become full on crazy pants.

Because how on earth could we even eat this many peaches and peach-based things in a year?

I have no idea.

Can we talk about something else?

And while yes, I did spend the weekend making: peach leather, dried peach slices, peach ketchup, cardamon-brandied peach halves, canned peaches, spiced canned peaches, peach soda syrup, peach butter, peach jam, and ginger-cardamon peach jam (*gasp*), I really emerged with a singular thought to bring to you, my dear friends.

That thought is this: cropping.

Life is one big, juicy, sticky mess. And anyone who's life appears dialed in in every way is cropping.

Cropping out the dog hair or the back talk, the bounced checks or the broken heart.

Cropping out whatever isn't working.

Because something isn't working in all of our lives.

It's the nature of life. If you aren't screwing something up you aren't really living.

So the next time you leave your favorite blog or social media with a sigh and a heavy heart, convinced you are inadequate because your life just doesn't measure up, know that it's all bullshit.

You totally measure up.

It's just that everyone else is cropping.

Here. Let me demonstrate using pretty peaches in my kitchen. Because Lord knows I have plenty of peaches.

When you see these peaches in my sink, all glistening and succulent in that vintage colander, you know that my life is perfect. Right? Right.

But when I allow you to see what's happening in the other sink and across the back splash, well, let's just say we no longer have peachy perfection. Oh, no. Now we have a health hazard.

Let's do another one because it's so much fun. Quaint, rustic jars of peaches on my old-school table. I know. It's like stepping back in time to your grandma's kitchen.

Or maybe not. Because your grandma probably didn't have a broken window screen, a battery charger, a knitting basket, and an inexplicable pair of latex gloves (!) on her table. Ahem.

Among other things.

So seriously, sister. Stop beating yourself up.

And the next time you feel inadequate, crop that shit out of the frame and forget about it.

And then marvel at how damn beautiful what you've kept truly is.

P.S. I love you.

Rachel