My Favorite Cherry Story
What is that it that makes a bowl of cherries incredibly charming?
The fleetingness of their seasonality? The elegance of their physical beauty and stem?
For me, the most captivating part of cherries harkens back to what has now become a story I like to tell from my summer days working at the market counter of a local apple farm during the middle of July.
The sun was bright and the heat refused to relent that week during one of my afternoons working at the farm. The best part of working a summer job in my youth at an apple farm was the fun that ensued as my friends came up with creative ways to pass the hours. We spent a few summers out in the orchards thinning apple trees, telling jokes, and making up games as days became weeks before the summer came to and end.
Typically, one or two of us would be pulled away from the fields to manage the market. While the coolness of the air inside was a welcomed break from the humidity and although I enjoyed keeping the market tidy, I missed the interaction of the crew of friends in the orchards and the memories I knew they must be making together.
On one such day as I quietly went about straightening jars of local hand-labeled honey and produce, two elderly women walked in with determined and hopeful looks on their faces. It was cherry season.
These women had opaque-white hair, wore simple cotton garments with small delicate floral patterns, and were clearly at least in their mid-eighties if not older. It was immediately obvious that they could be nothing other than best friends and that this trip to the market was a special adventure for them. Sisters perhaps, but best friends certainly. Upon entering they asked, “Do you have cherries? The Royal Ann cherries”? “We sure do”, I replied.
Annually, the farm would special order cherries from the Pacific Northwest. I seem to recall writing the sign for the Royal Ann cherries from Oregon, but they very well could have been the similar Rainier cherry variety from Washington State.
To this day, I still place a special order for the buckets of tart pitted cherries through the farm and bring them from Ohio to New York to make pies on special occasions. I even made a cherry pie from scratch in Brooklyn days after bringing Natalie home from the hospital. And all because of the connection I feel to this day in the market.
What happened next was magic. The two friends lit up with excitement as they spotted the heaping box of cherries near the register. They came prepared. Each of them pulled out hand-sewn cloth bags and gently set them upon the wooden counter and began filling their loot. The joy they emitted from simply being there together was contagious.
And as a teenager from humble beginnings, these cherries were pricy. I knew they were a special indulgence, and to witness anyone come into the market with such an understanding of their extravagance and still choose to indulge was captivating.
The cherries were all the came for that day.
They did not lift their heads to browse for anything else. The two friends seemed to giggle like young girls as they approached the counter and proceeded to pour out two piles of coins they had been saving. As I counted out the dimes, nickels, and pennies, I couldn’t help but feel connected to what I imagined was a storied past that they shared, and wondered how and when these sought-after cherries became a part of their narrative.
At the very least, these two women with a combined nearly 200 years of wisdom between them, choose to spend their money and their time together coming in to seek these cherries that they were going to enjoy.
I suppose there is something sweet to infer between the lines here that has lead me to slow down all of these years later and make sure that I bring these seasonal beauties home from the market at least once this time of year. I think of how some of the best friendships can last a lifetime, and of how the simplest of pleasures can often be the most treasured.
