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In my previous post I paid homage to the kitchen I left behind in sunny Florida for the hustle and bustle of New York City. But I'm not there yet. Not for another seven days anyway. Before making my way to the big top of big dreams, there was something I had to do first in my home state of Pennsylvania. I knew my new life in New York would be nothing, or mean nothing, if I didn't stop to spend some time with my family and more specifically my Mother this summer. In my youth we were a somewhat classic tale of mother-daughter bickering and butting heads, but due to her failing mental state and my inability to comprehend it as a teenager and other complicating family matters it was much more intense than the scenes played out on Oxygen or Bravo.

So in my angst (this is so abridged, its ridiculous) I made my way to Florida at sixteen seeking out my Dad and a better or just a different life. Over the course of the following twelve years many things came and went. One of the things that went was my mom's ability to fight off the Dementia which was eating her front temporal lobes. Diagnosed in her forties, she bounced around in family's homes and hospital visits as her condition rapidly worsened. Four years ago we had no choice but to put her in a home as her need for care grow beyond what anyone in our family was able to provide. Three years ago a large sedative dose almost killed her and took away nearly all physical abilities including all motor function and speech.

While her disease continued to engulf the fierce woman I knew, loved, and sometimes feared I was struggling to become my own woman without the guidance of my mother. This is no easy task and my soul was in some serious pain because of it, yet I had no control and needed to cope before my life started to slip away from me. I held on to her and to myself through the memories of all the things we shared which are wonderful and which made us us. Most of those memories revolve around food, cooking, and baking. One such fond moment in time is our family trips to Styer's Orchard in Langhorne, PA.

My mom was a pioneer of sorts who wanted to feed her children fresh, real, natural foods in the 80s when Doritos were the snack of choose and unfortunately marshmallow fluff was actually put on sandwiches. Eww. So once in Fall and once in early Summer we made our visits to Styer's Orchard. Styer's is a pick-your-own-orchard offering seasonal fruits and vegetables. In Fall we would pick out our pumpkins, one for each of us, some squash and other autumn delights. Looking back it felt like our own Great Pumpkin Patch, Charlie Brown. The summer at Styer's meant one delicious thing-strawberries. I can't believe three young kids would squeal with excitement when Mom announced it was time to go strawberry picking.

Wait. Of course I can believe it because at the end of a long day in the summer sun with fingers and clothes stained alike we would always make ice cream sundaes with our freshly picked strawberries and Mom would make her strawberry preserves for the rest of the year. These memories are so alive in my mind and heart, I can see my Mom smiling while squatting down to a strawberry bush holding her delicate hand to her face shielding her eyes from the sunshine surveying the orchard for her children and even now taste the warm burst of tart juice in my mouth sampling as I picked.

But those are days gone by. This summer I spent our time together feeding her pureed foods, reading books to her, and desperately trying to come to terms with tremendously unfair suffering and loss she has had to endure. Once a vivacious woman and now an invalid. Maybe I'll never come to an understanding about how or why this has befallen us, but I can keep her fully alive by re-enacting our favorite moments. This summer I reached back in time and visited Styer's Orchard looking for a bit of myself and some lovely summer fruits.

With baking on the brain I opted for the white peaches and blackberries in season. I also sampled a fresh banana pepper for the first time, and boy are they sweet! You may not believe it but all the picturesque photos to follow are iPhone photos. I have been separated from the Nikon and will only be reunited with her when Pete and I meet in New York.

Wagon Ride. I remember this as supreme fun-riding the hitched wagon via a tractor to the plots on the orchard ready for pickin'.

The Peach Trees. Once the wagon stops, you walk a ways to find the white peach trees ready to be picked. I sent this photo to my friend in New Zealand who works on a vineyard trying to entice her to also visit home.

Getting Closer to Peaches. Each ripe peach was lovelier than the last...

Bees Make Peach Honey. Or, I was telling myself that while watching these bees gorge on peach juice and bits.

My Peach Pickins. I wanted enough white peaches for a pie, and at 2.5lbs I believe there was enough.

How to Pick Blackberries. This sign is sound advice, and I also had a little tip from an orchard worker to get some of the juiciest berries off the beaten path a bit.

Ripe vs. Un-Ripe Blackberries. How do you know which ones to pick? The black ones of course!

My Pint. Of blackberries, although I would not be opposed to trying a pint of blackberry beer.

The Plum Trees. These plums weren't ready to be picked, but in their metamorphosis they liked like purple gems dripping from a branch.

I paid only $5 for the 2.5 lbs of white peaches and the pint of blackberries. The soul searching was free. The only right thing to do was take my precious pickings back to my aunts home and begin a baking bonanza. I wanted to play with flavors so I made a White Peach Iced Tea Pie and a Basil Blackberry Tart. Of course I wrote none of it down but ate it all with friends, so there are no recipes but photos to remember these beauties by.

White Peach Iced Tea Pie Ingredients. I reduced the iced tea down with some sugar, and also mixed the peach slices with some lemon juice and sugar. The crust was the sour cream and Christ it was good.

Fresh Out of the Oven. Isn't it so hard not to eat baked goods as soon as they are done? I've made this mistake many, many times before so I just drooled over this while it cooled.

Blackberry Basil Tart. First, I could not locate the disk to my tart pan. I was utterly disappointed I couldn't achieve the level of pretty I desired so I used my 9" springform instead.

Tart Slice. I wanted to capture the layers of this tart as best I could before devouring it. The crust is also sour cream, the cheese is cream cheese, lemon zest, and sugar. That was pre-baked with the crust. The topping is blackberries, sugar, and fresh basil slightly reduced together. Once that was on top, I chilled it to set at least 1 hour.

What's the moral of this terribly long story? You can't make new pies and tarts without knowing how to make the old ones. Or, you can't get to where you're going unless you know here you've been. I may not be happy with the recent set of cards I've been dealt, but I do love the old ones.

This one's for you Ma. Thank you. With all my love, Rachel.