famous peaches, dripping juice

Peaches, July 2013

“Famous Glastonbury Connecticut Peaches,” announces the hand-lettered, laminated sign at my favorite farmstand, Walker Farm, in  Dummerston, Vermont. Glastonbury’s about an hour and a half south of Dummerston. Which is about as far north as good peaches can be grown.

At Walker Farm, every display table of fruits and vegetables overflows. Each is, like the peaches above, interspersed with casual bouquets of seasonal unfancy flowers — snapdragons, black-eyed susans, glads. And everything is curated. Not just “local” but “Old Athens Farm” or “Scott Farm” or, of course, “Walker Farm.”  Not just “heirloom apples” but “Pearmain Abbey”  or “Sheep’s Nose” or “Northern Spy” or “Cox’s Orange Pippin.”  Not just “organic” or “conventional” (as at Whole Foods) but “organic”, “non-organic” or “low-spray.”

To me, a cook and gardener and someone who writes about and thinks about food, everywhere I look at Walker Farm I see invitations. These fragrant tableaus are infinitely more life than still-life… for life by definition is not still.  These fruits, these vegetables, are alive, breathing. This is their moment. They must, in most cases,  be eaten and soon, or they will rot.

Each basket of summer plums (first the purples, especially the small, sweet Methlens, then the yellow-amber Golden Transparents)… each tray  of vivid peppers, shiny as brand new Italian racing cars, each zeppelin-like striped squash: all saying, see me, observe my shape, my color. Smell me. Look at me. Would it not be a fine thing to eat me? To allow me to become part of you? In the way that you will eventually become part of the same humus from which I grew?

At Walker Farm, the cash registers are small islands in lakes of green, surrounded by bunches of herbs. Fountainlike ferny fronds of dill, slightly done-in by being harvested, semi-reclined, like Victorian ladies draped on fainting couches; proud upright full-of-itself basil, frilled party-dress parsley, laid-back coriander — relaxing, but not as much so as the dill, and mint, also upright and sprightly and excited to be alive.

Let’s see — cucumber-dill soup, or cucumber-mint? With yogurt, green grapes, scallion…. And, oh look, the ruby crescent potatoes, the Russian banana potatoes… Chilled cucumber soup (mint and dill?) and a bowl of potato salad — how lovely a dinner would that be, on a hot summer night, on the screen porch?

First-class strawberries don’t travel

All good food is rooted in “seasonal, regional, local.” This was true long before it became politically correct and a point of pride (and marketing) at restaurants and markets all over the U.S. I will not insult you by explaining why a strawberry, flown in from California to Vermont, is utterly unlike a picked-that-morning Walker Farm strawberry; the one large and spongy, with a hollow in its middle, faintly strawberry-flavored pulp;  the other small, dense, bumpy, bright red, spitting juice, ecstatic in its strawberriness. You know why. (Though, just for the hell of it, think about how you felt the last time you got off the plane at the end of a long flight).

Your receipt at Walker Farm is not as detailed as the display, but it, too, notes on each item of produce listed, “ours” or “theirs.” A Glastonbury peach is “theirs.” A Walker-grown organic Purple Cherokee tomato is “ours.”

After the first peach, there is no other

Though few may take the time to listen to or tell it, all good food is also rooted in story. Sometimes  the story is, in one way or another, “ours” and “theirs” (as when a Southerner says, “Oh, we don’t put sugar in our cornbread,” a statement that is a great signifier, though a Northerner may not recognize it as such; a Northerner may think all that is being  discussed is recipe, not regional identity, pride, superiority).

But, because food is seasonal, the story is also often  time-connected, and its web of associations spins out from time and seasonality. Summer; watermelon; picnic. Uncle Joe, who salted his watermelon.

I could tell you a story about a peach

About being a very little girl, biting into that peach, which, it had been suggested, I eat over the sink. It was so juicy, and, I was, like all young eaters, inclined towards a stickiness which tended to spread, after contact with something juicy.

This sink was in the Poughkeepsie, New York kitchen of my mother’s best friend, Dorothy Fields, who set a stool in front of it for me to stand on. The walls of much of the house were covered in 50’s style grooved wooden cedar paneling. Dorothy, and my mother,  were both young. I remember smelling, that day, a rank and distasteful odor at Dorothy’s; she had changed the diaper of her infant, Christopher. This process seemed to me disgusting, embarrassing.  A somewhat fastidious child, I went outside. Later, when I came back in, it did not smell as strongly.

My mother and Dorothy, talking adult talk, sitting on the couch. Christopher, asleep in his bassinet. That was when Dorothy offered me the peach (“Ellen? Would you like a peach?”), perhaps to buy the two of them a little more uninterrupted time. “They’re pretty juicy,” she added. “You’d better eat it over the sink.”

That peach flesh was dense, a bright yellow-orange blushed in parts with a fine veining of pink-red. It was perfectly ripe, tender but with the gentlest resistance, which gave way as my strong young hungry voracious teeth sank into its tissue. That tissue exploded into flavor, a taste even more vivid than its color, almost too intense. With each bite, my mouth was flooded;  the fragrance of ripe peach opened up and out through my nose into my brain as its copious pink juice poured down my chin and into the sink.

The grown-up conversation, the sleeping baby, vanished. The universe became that peach.

After I ate it, I turned on the tap. Rinsed my hands, rinsed my face. Dried them with a dish cloth. Came back to the world.

Now, again, I noticed how hot the day was.

And, now, as an adult, knowing when peaches are in season, I know it must have been July.

What comes again; what does not

It is July again, as I write this, the tail end of the month. My mother’s best friend, who eventually moved with her family from Poughkeepsie to Hastings-on-Hudson, New York, to a home across the street from the one in which my mother and her family  lived, is long dead, of  bile duct cancer. My mother’s four best friends all died of cancer; I will say their lovely names here, now all but forgotten except to a very few people, so that just for a moment, in the memory of a peach, they may return to life:

Norma Hayes

Augusta Prince

Buena  Dapallonia

Dorothy Fields

Norma, left; Charlotte (my mother), center; Dorothy, right

Norma, left; Charlotte (my mother), center; Dorothy, right

But though they are gone, those four ladies who laughed, and drank vodka and tonics, and put Band-Aids on the knees of their own and each other’s children and who did not get to (or have to) face extreme old age, their fifth friend lives on. My mother, 98.

She is long past biting into a peach, or biting anything; we puree her food for her. (Though I am pretty good about rolling with the changes, when we had to switch from solid food to puree, I cried). At first, they were thick purees, often made ice cream-like by the addition of frozen bananas, and we (her caregivers most often, but occasionally me) fed them to her; spoon by spoon. For awhile. Now, another change: thinner purees that she can take through a straw — peach and yogurt, sweetened with maple syrup, thinned with apple juice, among them. Sometimes a substance I abhor but she now loves, recommended by her caregivers, is added: the canned nutritional supplement, called  Ensure (it was another change I had trouble with, not only for the Ensure’s  artificiality but because the only place I have ever seen it is on the shelves of  three different beloved elders, in the months before they died).

But! My mother still lives in the same house, on the same street, Elm Place,  where she lived when she was a young working mother, with friends she adored, who came and went, including Dorothy Fields, right across the street.  Though  my mother’s own children, and the children of her friends, are now in their fifties, sixties, and seventies, families with young children live all around her on Elm Place. Some of those children even come to visit her. Here is one, Annaliese, who brought her stuffed baby elephant to nestle into Charlotte’s cheek (“A real one would squish her,” Annaliese explained to me earnestly.)

My mother is slowly, by infinitesimal degrees, leaving life. She is the last leaf on the generational tree that was her contemporary friends and colleagues.  She will leave, when she does, not in the dreadfulness that took her friends, one by one. Not for her the storm that blew Norma away when she was still green. Not even as  the other three went, when their particular leaf was starting to turn red or yellow.

No. My mother, Charlotte, is one of those brown leaves which clings to the tree, curled in on itself,  stubborn in its attachment. Until, one day, it, too — she — will let go.

“Time is a tree, this life one leaf” — e e cummings

I know I cannot know yet how much I will miss her, how tectonically my life will shift, only that this will be vast. But I know, too, that whatever its size, this grief will be comprehensible. For it feels like a natural ending, one that will take place as part of a natural cycle. To feel there is this — some sense to a death—  is a privilege and a blessing for those who grieve that death. As the last brown leaf,  I know my mother will have reached the end of a long, long season.

This is privilege for her, too. It is one her friends, who died incomprehensibly — too young and in terrible, painful  ways — did not have (nor did their families, in grieving for them).  It is one my late husband, who also died too young (44), but suddenly, in an accident, also did not have. The incomprehensibility of that death will stay with me. I am sure,  until I, too, let go of (or are pulled from) the tree.

I will grieve my mother when she goes. But that grief will not include the  “why” which deaths that make no sense bring. Deaths that seem “unnatural” tattoo the hearts  of the bereaved with whys. After thirteen years, I still find myself asking why, and despite deeply wishing that I did not, and knowing I will never receive an answer, about my husband’s being ripped from life so suddenly and violently, at a time when he was so happy in his life and our shared life was also in a phase so happy, rich, and fruitful.

When grief includes such a why, bereaved people are left with something they may not ever “get over” or “find closure” with, as well-meaning but clueless people sometimes advise. As David Richo, the wise Buddist/Jungian author of “The Five Things We Cannot Change “ (and many other books) notes, “Some feelings, for example those associated wih grief about a heavy loss, may never lead to full resolution. There is a note of inconsolability in some grief no matter how much we cry or are mirrored by those who care about us. We can say yes to the given that some of our experiences remain unresolved and unfinished.” Say yes to such a thing? How?  I don’t know. I know I must, because saying no is an option not on the table where truth is served. Saying no is a lie, one that is finally even more painful than submitting, voluntarily, with eyes open, to the yes.

But the agony of why — that, at least, is a phase of grief I will not have when my mother dies. She will leave, when she does, for a perfectly good reason. She will have completed her life. She will leave because it is time for her to go. She will leave because she is done.

She will have had, in addition to a full and active professional, artistic, social, and familial life in youth, middle age, and early old age,  half a dozen or so years of extreme old age that have been good in ways few people in our culture can lay claim to.

She has had tender care by dear people who see her as an individual, not a generic old person, and who have come to love her as the individual she is.  She has had regular, increasingly lengthy, visits from me (and the resolution of all that was once not good between us).  She has had occasional visits from her son, my brother,  who is also prepared to offer financial support when and should it become needed (as it will, if she lives much longer) so that she can continue to stay where and as she is — a generosity, on his part, should it come to that, which cannot be overstated, for it will allow this sweet status quo to continue.

A sad and terrifying addendum: the words above, which I just crossed out in early September 2013, were true has far as I knew, when I wrote them in late July. And I was so proud to write them — proud that my financially well-off brother, though he had been often dismissive of me at best and typically traveled far past that in verbal though not physical abuse towards me  — was actually willing to step up and give her this. As he had promised her when she was younger. As he had informed her attorney that month, that he would.

He then changed his mind.

Which now puts her future, however long it is, in jeopardy. And, having very little by way of financial resources myself, have me state of great anxiety on her behalf. I am oversimplifying here, but not by much. And I simply do not know what to do.

So strong was and is my wish for my mother’s well-being, as is my wish to be able to love, or at least like and respect, my sole sibling, that I let my desire for a redemptive act on his part overshadow 60 years of experience with an individual whose actions (though I am not a professional) align pretty clearly with what is described here. I do not believe, and I do not want to believe, what I, and my mother (fortunately unknowingly, on her part) are now facing; yet, had I gazed with eyes open to the many years of painful history, I could have predicted just such a turn of events.

But let us leave the story as I wrote it a month and a week ago, when this latest twist was still unimagined and, by me, unimaginable.

Her days, though bed-bound, are vast with laughter, good food, music (several of us sing to her regularly, and CDs are often playing, with both music she loved when young and the acoustic world beat African brought by one of her caregivers, which she seems to like even more; she actually sways in bed to it at times, dancing as she is able). We read aloud to her, sometimes, the books she herself once wrote for children.  She is even still, in some fashion, helping emerging artists and writers (this is another story, and wondrous, but not one for here). There are the visits of her neighbors, young and middle-aged. And all this is not in an institution, but in her own home (to which and from which I have come and gone, with increasing frequency, these last six years).

And, she will go accompanied by her very old cat, Tumbleweed.

Tumbleweed and tumble Charlotte, tumbling out of form and living, into the timeless life. Into what the poet Theodore Rothke called Great Nature. Which ends a life, all individual lives, those of cats and peaches and mothers. But which does not and never will end life itself.

Tumbleweed and tumble Charlotte: the two of them will go to ground, the same humus from which grow apples and potatoes, Cox’s Orange Pippins and ruby crescents.

The word ‘humility’ has as its root the word humus; we will all, eventually, go to and become part of it.

But I think there is work to do before then. As we watch our elders go to earth, we take part in vast unanswerable mysteries. If, that is, we face them with wide-open eyes,  with courage. If we do, we will, perhaps, grow some humility. How can we do otherwise, if we look at this journey truthfully, without believing that we will somehow be exempt from it, and from difficulty and pain in general? Will not such humility  help us when we make our own journey to humus?

I believe so, but I cannot say surely. As I age my certainties grow fewer and fewer. I know only what I see, and eat, and think, and feel, and  that is always changing. Because that is  the nature of sight, and ingredients, and thoughts, and feelings. I only know the present, and even that, only provisionally.

I know that now, again, the peaches are back.

And I know that though they will be gone in less than a week, not to return until next summer, they are perfection now.

Dinner with Dragonwagon: random meals from a life

Sometimes I do a "status update" on Facebook that's just what I made for dinner. My FB companeros almost always ask me about it: where to find ingredients, or a recipe. Or, they say it's making them hungry... Or, they tell me about something similar that they make, or mention when and where they had it... This box, a P.S. to each post, is a semi-formalized version of same, with links and sometimes a few cooking notes at the bottom. Plus, you'll get to drop in on the dear people I'm eating with, and sit at many tables in many places with us.

Date: July 19, 2013
Place: Screen porch of our home, Westminster West, Vermont
At the table with:


David R. Koff
Lori Randall Stradtman



To Start: 

Chilled Cucumber-Dill Soup
(with Green Grapes, Walnuts, Yogurt, Green Garlic & Scallions)


Yellow Wax & Pinto Bean Salad with Thai Basil

Platter of Sizzling-Hot Parsley-Buttered Assorted New Potatoes
(Ruby Crescents, Fingerlings, & Peruvian Blues) 


Golden Beets,
with an Almost Negligible Amount of Mango-Peach Vinaigrette
(with a teeny drop of Vanilla, & a Grind of Fresh Black Pepper)

For dessert,
(eaten as we watched a torrential thundershower lash & flash the mountains & trees):

Summer Fruit Pudding, Mint & Fresh Cherry Garnish
(The Fruits: Local Fresh Black & Red Raspberries, Currants, & Blueberries)

Served with a with a Pour of McNamara Dairy Heavy Cream




23 Responses to “famous peaches, dripping juice”

  1. Joy Tilton 31. Jul, 2013 at 4:19 pm #

    I stood there with you on the stool, at the sink eating that peach. I can hear the murmur of adults in the living room and easily transport myself back to 1962 when I was 10 and we lived on Summit Street in Springfield. Just as easily, I watch and nod yes to tears shed as your Mother makes her journey to the end. It’s a sad day when we can no longer savor the fruit of summer and our friends leave us one by one. Your analogy to a leaf was spot on, how many times have I watched as our Pin Oaks hold on fiercely to the branches, not releasing to winter’s harsh winds. Finally, they give up only when spring’s new leaves push them out. Your words sting sometimes, but most often they are the medicine I need.

    • crescent 31. Jul, 2013 at 9:13 pm #

      Thank you, Joy. I am honored to be able to speak to you, and glad the you are willing to bear the sting. I can only hope that saying / writing, and reading such things releases the sting, is more curative than carrying it within and looking/not looking at it. xxxooo to you and your pin-oaks — beautiful trees.

      • Joy Tilton 01. Aug, 2013 at 11:20 am #

        It is healing and I hope you receive strength from writing down the pain as well. I reached the same point with Mom that you are at now.. the ability to let go and allow nature to take it’s course. We hold so many wonderful memories in our hearts, enough to last us a lifetime. I’m enjoying this wet, cool summer here in Arkansas and enjoying all the green-ness around me!

  2. Diana Mazzuchi 11. Aug, 2013 at 10:16 pm #

    What a beautiful article you’ve written. I lost my husband of 35 years while I was away at a teacher’s conference in 2092. He’d gone sailing at Harriman Reservoir and was seen hanging from his boat yelling for help. By the time someone heard him and got a rowboat in the water, he’d gone under and wasn’t found til 10 days later. I believe no matter how you lose a loved one, grief never truly goes away. You just learn to live with it. I’m hoping when I die, I will see him again and I’ll want to know how he ended up in the water and why the hell he didn’t have his life jacket on!

    • Diana Mazzuchi 11. Aug, 2013 at 10:17 pm #

      That was 2002!

      • Crescent 11. Aug, 2013 at 11:24 pm #

        Oh, Diana… I am so sorry. What an awful way to lose him, and so many unanswerable questions to go over, Though in the end, it’s the loss itself, not the questions. And grief — you just ride the waves, I guess, and thankfully over time they are farther and farther apart, but when they come, it’s with the same intensity. I think of widowhood as the club no one wants to be a member of. Impossible to understand until you get there, not that you would ever want anyone to get there… Sigh. CD

        2002. That was two years after I lost Ned.

  3. Virginia Allyn 14. Aug, 2013 at 7:48 pm #

    I can see Westminster from the top of the hill on my daily walk in Walpole. Now, when I look over the river and through the woods, I’ll think of you on your porch eating chilled cucumber soup with good friends. Then I’ll go buy some peaches at Walker’s.

    Thanks for the wonderful article and for taking care of your mom.


    • Crescent 14. Aug, 2013 at 9:38 pm #

      Thank you so much, Virginia! We are in Walpole pretty often (Burdick’s, of course),,, and I know the walk and hill you mean (at least I think I do.) It is my pleasure and privilege to have this time with Charlotte, especially since it wasn’t always so good between us. That it is now: wondrous.

      Do I know you? Have we a mutual friend? If not, I am curious: how did you find your way to me and this post? (Or did you see me keyboarding away from your hilltop?)



  4. Virginia Allyn 14. Aug, 2013 at 11:56 pm #

    Hello, Crescent!

    I illustrate kid’s books so your mom is a goddess to me and I’ve known of your books from way back (Dairy Hollow days). Your vegetarian book led me to your website/blog.

    My daughter and I stayed at a farmhouse here in Walpole for a few months last year. I loved the area and didn’t want to leave. So, I rented a small place above the chocolate shop and have lived here happily ever after.

    Next time you’re at Burdick’s be sure to wave. I’ll be the one in the window scribbling away.

    My very best to you and your mother,


  5. Barbara Harrington 30. Aug, 2013 at 12:18 am #

    Your mother came into my mind strongly tonight. Some searching brought me here. A few years ago I left a comment on your blog but so much has happened since that I can’t remember just what it was. About mothers, though, and aging, I believe. Mine died in December of 2009 at 95 1/2. Reading about your mother takes me right back to those ending days, months, years of her life journey. It is such a wonderful gift, though a painful one, to be part of that. I send love to all of you, with an unexplainable sense of connection that feels so very real. Blessings to you.

    • Crescent 07. Sep, 2013 at 12:12 am #

      Thank you, Barbara… Thank you. If connection feels real, it is. xo

  6. nancy clingan 06. Sep, 2013 at 10:03 pm #

    when i see my mother, once a year or so
    we spoon to sleep
    first we are face to face, in her bed
    whispering for a long while
    she’s got her hearing aids in place
    rememberances, dreams, worries and ease
    times gone by, words of end of life, resting with jesus
    at last
    we kiss goodnight, she rolls to her left
    the only side she can sleep on
    she places her hearing aid on the end table
    saying “i can’t hear you anymore, now”
    i move in behind her, spoon style
    placing my hand on her skinny back
    i feel her heart beat, so small, like a bird
    my breath finds her rhythm
    i say thanks for this one more time

    • Crescent 07. Sep, 2013 at 12:14 am #

      Love this, Nancy. So sweet in content… and well, specifically written!!!! xxxooo

  7. Angel Tatum Craddock 06. Sep, 2013 at 11:21 pm #

    Just passing by in spirit. These words-thoughts-visioning have the sense of a just-ripe peach, which I eat slowly,reverently, mindful of what is opening in me and the path that led me to this point. Travelers have been my teachers, friends,loves, anxieties and griefs. I bow to the light, and the shadow in you.

    • Crescent 07. Sep, 2013 at 12:15 am #

      Yes and yes and yes, Angel. Reading a book just now called Shadow Dance!

  8. Ellen Ruffin 07. Sep, 2013 at 12:45 pm #


    WHAT a statement–something I needed at this very moment. I have recently found it necessary to place my mother (91) in a care facility, and I have been thoroughly surprised by the grief. Your words bring comfort to me.

    I must tell you…I just read _When the Wind Stops_, the 1995 edition. I adore that book, and I feel SO connected to it (because of you!), and it brought tears. Very timely.

    Please know I think of you often, and I appreciate your Facebook activity.

  9. trish o'malley 08. Sep, 2013 at 12:23 am #

    I went to Whole Foods yesterday to buy the fresh local pasta that would complete a romantic and casual dinner with a relatively new beloved. The centerpiece was the garlic spaghetti I have been making for decades. I even looked it up in the tattered cookbook that you and Jan wrote and drew inside just to see what the original recipe was. I already had heirloom tomatoes, lavender ice cream, and gallia and tuscan melon. Organic Pinot from a winery overlooking the ocean where I spent an idyllic afternoon. I did not need flowers and dollars are scarce which is why I was making garlic spaghetti. The flowers were a bit droopy and fairly sparse. I found myself picking through some gerbera daisies that were stunning in color and just a bit faded. the price was reasonable (if I had any cash to spare). Why was I looking at flowers when I suspected my lover would bring some when he arrived? Oh. My mother’s birthday and she is long passed. I bought them with another thought and grabbed the pasta so I could get home and shed my tears as I placed them in a rustic vase. I read of your time with your mother and I know the days are packed for you. Emotions, chores, balancing acts, prayers of whatever sort suits you, memories, and your incredible words which you share so generously. How is it possible that a woman, your mother, who affected an industry AND countless families with her love, is without adequate resources? I am not asking about the particulars at all. I just know that we all have to find a way to honor those who truly bring richness and abundance to our lives so they can receive it back. It does not matter if they are musicians or writers or healers or yogis or baristas or poets or painters. I have nothing to say about family members and money. I have nothing, in the moment, to say about our health care system or the industry of life passage. I just write to express love, to show my gratitude for the little girl who came to visit with her stuffed familiar, for the cameras that allow us to capture the cats and friends who offered peaches and deep conversation, the caregivers, the farmers, the writers who paint pictures and evoke feelings, and this precious earth which loans us these body suits so we can eat the peach. love to you Crescent and to your dear mother. trish

  10. suzi w. 13. Sep, 2013 at 1:27 pm #


    I so love reading your posts, whenever I do come across them (not often enough.) Watching my grandmother go was hard, and I know when the time comes, watching my mother go will be too. It is good to know we are not alone, people are crying all over the world, and eating peaches, IN SEASON.

    xo and cupcakes,

  11. Elayne Clift 21. Sep, 2013 at 11:10 pm #

    This a wonderful piece of writing and sharing, Crescent. Thank you.I do understand the situation better now. Having gone through similar perils financially with my parents, and not dissimilar angst over my siblings – both gone a long time ago and much, much too early – I can understand at least to some degree, what you are facing and feeling. Sending you warm and true thoughts.

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  1. Keeping the “dead” in “deadline” - Crescent Dragonwagon - 16. Oct, 2015

    […] Richo says  (and I have quoted this before, in a post called Famous Peaches, Dripping Juice, which is on my other food-centric blog, Deep Feast), “Some feelings, for example, those […]

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