Mine would have to be the weekends we spent at our little cottage in very rural New Bruncwick, Canada. Our cross-pasture nighbors were my great aunt and great uncle, who were small scale farmers and across the road was my great grandmother. Must be something in the water out there that prolongs life. Anyways, it brings a smile to my face to recall the days we spent at the farm harvesting big, bumpy cucumbers from their plants, yanking orange carrots from the ground, along with potatoes an radishes, taking a handful of peas in their pods and occassionally snacking on the peas, pod and all. Corn was also to be had. My brothers and I loved to husk them, throwing the stringy inner bits and the outer husks all over the front yard of the cottage. I think we just liked making messes to be truthful. While we were over at the farm it was pretty much a given we were going to feed the cows. My grandmother would then proceed to whip up an amazing dinner.
For dessert we would usually have pie, which was filled with blueberries that grew wild right behind my great grandmother's house at the bottom of a mountain. While over there were required to pick raspberries and strawberries that grew in front of her house right beside a bubbling brook that we were warned never to cross as the current would sweep us away. These were destined to become homemade jams.
I still e-mail my grandmother (who is surprisingly tech-saavy) to get recipes from her.