I cut the fruit in small pieces – strawberries, watermelon, honeydew, cantaloupe. And then I reach for the clear green Depression glass bowl in the kitchen cupboard, pile the fruit into it and stash it in the refrigerator.

That bowl always stood on the shelf in a kitchen cupboard of the old family homestead near the ocean in Point Pleasant, New Jersey, where my mother was born and where we spent summers when I was growing up.

I don’t remember Mother ever cutting up fruit to put into it. But I do recall the delicious fresh applesauce she’d make each August, using the tart, wormy apples we gathered from the gnarly old tree that stood in the middle of the backyard.

Mother’s culinary skills turned that sour green fruit into pure ambrosia, laced with sugar and nutmeg and sweet fragrant cinnamon.

My sisters and I clamored for her applesauce and devoured it with gusto from the small green bowls that matched the larger serving piece.

Those bowls bring back memories of sweet summer days, soft silent nights and a delicious dish that my mother created.

My sister was downsizing several years ago and wanted to give the green bowls to a thrift shop.

Vehemently, I told her, “No, I want those bowls.”

I’m glad I did. They remind me of Mother whenever I reach into my cupboard and use them – which I do frequently. Each time, I smile and savor lovely thoughts of her and long-ago summers spent at the shore.

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