A Bag of Angel Tomatoes

I still pass by that little farm stand on my way to work—tucked beside the apple trees, quiet now. For years, it was part of our rhythm: pulling over for cherry tomatoes, waving to Dan, chatting with Cindy. Then one summer, it stayed quiet. No crates. No Cindy.

That’s when we reached out.

As I sat there staring at her message, memories came rushing in—gentle, vivid, full of laughter, flavors, and seasons. Eighteen, maybe nineteen years’ worth. I think it was our second summer here. We had just moved nearby and were still discovering Milford.

Dan was leaning over a wooden crate of tomatoes, wiping them with a cloth. Cindy stood nearby, arranging pints of tomatoes, green beans, and cucumbers—each labeled in her neat, slanted handwriting. We stopped to browse, and they welcomed us like they’d known us forever.

They were curious from the start.

“What do you make with this?” Dan would ask, holding up a winter melon.

“Do you cook it or eat it raw?” Cindy wanted to know.

We explained—a green bean stir-fry, yogurt gravy, beet avial. I think Dan was fascinated, though slightly confused. Soon, we began bringing them seeds—ash gourd, snake gourd, red amaranth…

“Let’s see what comes up,” Dan would grin, already plotting his test patch.

Cindy would mock-scold if I picked the wrong kind of apples. ” Jyo doesn’t like these! Take the crisp ones,” and she’d direct me to a box of Honey Crisps. Toward the end of each season, Dan would quietly hand Jyo a mixed basket— ‘for your cider.’ He’d even suggest, ‘Blend the Jonagold’s with the Cortland’s. Smoother base.’ That cider became a Thanksgiving tradition—so did all my apple creations. AJ, our son, had his own favorite too: applesauce.

When he was little, the farm stand was his favorite stop. He’d jump out before the car even stopped, reaching for a pint of orange cherry tomatoes.

He called them “angel tomatoes.”

“Not too sweet, not too sour,” he’d say solemnly. “Just right.”

Cindy found that hilarious.

“You hear that, Dan? We’ve got angel tomatoes!” she’d shout across the stand. She once wrote it on the chalkboard: ‘Angel Tomatoes — $3/pint.’

After that, every time we visited, she had a small bag set aside.

“These are for AJ,” she’d wink. “Can’t risk someone else buying his tomatoes.”

They watched him grow up—from a toddler clutching tomatoes to a teen helping load crates into our trunk. Then came the fall he didn’t come—he had gone off to college. Cindy taught me to bottle applesauce in single-serve jars. “Send them with him,” she said. “He’ll miss home less.” Every now and then, Dan and Cindy asked, “How’s AJ doing?” “Does he like Boston?” “Did he find a girlfriend yet?” Cindy would tease. I’d tell them stories—changing majors, Covid restrictions, Boston winters. They remembered everything. Sometimes I wondered if they remembered all customers that way, or just us.

I must have told Cindy about Onam once—maybe while chatting about summer’s end.

The following year, out of the blue, she asked:

“When’s your King’s celebration? The one with the flower thingies?”

It took me a second to realize she meant Onam. Mahabali. Pookalams. That year—and every year after—Cindy set aside flowers: marigolds, zinnias, cosmos, daisies—wrapped in brown paper.

“Just promise me one thing,” she’d say. “Send me pictures.” I always did. Those small exchanges meant more to me than she probably knew. She honored our traditions with quiet respect—not as an outsider, but as a friend genuinely interested.

Dan and Cindy found their way into my cooking blog, too. Over the years, my posts featured quirky vegetables and heirloom finds that came straight from their soil. One fall, Dan handed me a couple of bright orange sweet pumpkins. “Let’s see what you do with these,” he said. I rose to the challenge—grated, sautéed, and folded them into a South Indian–New England cheesecake that surprised even me.

When I brought them a slice of cheesecake or a soup sample, Cindy would nod and say something like, “Hmm. That’s different,” or “Dan would like this. He’s more of a sweet tooth.”

Sometimes we bought in bulk—from summer through fall—for potlucks, school events, soup kitchen dinners. When I mentioned that some of it was for the soup kitchen, Dan would quietly insist on giving part of it free. I’d try to argue. He’d cut me off with a shrug and that half-smile. “You never know when I’ll end up as one of them.”

It wasn’t self-pity—just honesty. He knew how fragile farming was. His words stayed with me. Even now, when I cook at the soup kitchen, I think of him. He gave like a farmer—quietly, from the earth, without fanfare.

Over time, the signs began to show. Dan moved slower. Cindy ran the stand alone more often.

The crates shrank in number. “Just scaling back,” she said one day, not looking up. We didn’t ask questions. We just kept showing up—buying what little they had. Not because we needed it, but because they had become part of our lives.

Then came the summer when the farm stand didn’t open at all. That’s when I messaged Cindy.

“Mini, Dan passed away during winter.” And continued, “Dan and I both enjoyed getting to know your family and watching your son grow up.”

No details. No ceremony. Just a line, as heavy as the silence at the farm stand. I asked if she was working elsewhere. She didn’t say. Now, every time I pass that old stand—on my way to work or back from errands—I glance at it. It looks the same, almost like it’s just closed for the day.

What I do see are flickers of memory:

AJ with his angel tomatoes.

Cindy handing over a reserved bag of beans.

Dan waving from the yard.

My trunk filled with squashes for the soup kitchen.

We knew them for nearly two decades. Not family by blood, but something else—woven into our seasons, our meals, our memories. I hope Cindy found peace. And I hope Dan is somewhere with gentle knees, endless apples, and rows of angel tomatoes.

P.S. Names have been changed to honor the privacy of those in the story, but the memories and gratitude are very real.