Every February, hundreds of pink promissory notes arrive at my home, pledging delivery of a summer crop of succulent and honeyed nectarines. The ripened fruit make its way into jams, gelatos, smoothies and even roasted chicken, but these round globes of goodness are finest when consumed sun-warmed and straight from the tree – devoured while juice drips unabashedly down my chin. This summer, again, I was paid in full.