I have had an unidentified seasonal nostalgia recently, and the dedication to Dianne Jacob's  book, Will Write For Food nails what it is. It reads,
"To my parents, who taught me to appreciate food as a vehicle for memory and identity...."
Cherries, the stone fruit du jour at today's market, do that to me. I grew up summering with my family in northern Michigan and cherries defined the taste of summer, always on the first grocery list in June, heading up the snack list before chips, dips and soda. Traverse City, known internationally as the Cherry Capitol of the World, kept cherries on the table and at the beach through early August. Every summer.
It's no wonder I remain something of a cherry snob here in northern California, not quite believing that they actually grow here -- Central Valley. Rainer Cherries, o.k. They are the stars of the west coast, in my view, and you PAY for them. 
But Michigan cherries still seem the best, maybe because that taste  allows me to see musical notes on the page at summer music camp again, my brother diving under the surface of Lake Michigan in his swim fins again, my mother making a fuss over cherry stains and sand again. Taste triggering memory and identity, Dianne. Yes, summoned now, in every bite.