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Image titled "LOVE LETTERS TO ALICE" in dark brown serif type on a cream background, with a hand-painted illustration of a peach and leaf beneath it. Below, italicized text reads "A collection of letters celebrating Alice Waters in support of The Edible Schoolyard." At the bottom is the logo of The Edible Schoolyard Project, styled as a ribbon banner in dark brown and cream.
Nicolas Jammet Team Sweetgreen
Dear Alice, 
I often think back to our meeting in Berkeley over a decade ago. Before we opened a Sweetgreen just down the block from Chez Panisse, I came to ask for your blessing.

You not only gave me your support, you reminded me why the work mattered. You spoke about buying from local organic farmers and introduced us to Frog Hollow Farm. 
To this day, we proudly serve their peaches every summer. 
If anyone knows peaches, it's you.

It was you who put the perfect peach on a pedestal 
with the bold conviction that behind every extraordinary meal is an extraordinary farmer.

You changed the way we think about food.

You taught us that fast food can embrace the values of 
slow food. That children thrive when they know where their food comes from. That an uncompromising commitment to ingredients, and to people, isn't just idealism. You gave all of us permission to believe these values belong to everyone, not just a fortunate few. It is an honor to help 
carry your legacy forward through this collaboration, sharing your philosophy, and your iconic peaches, with millions of Sweetgreen guests.

With so much love, 
and an obscene 
amount of peaches, Nicolas & Team Sweetgreen With image of Alice Waters with Nic, Jon and Nate the founders of sweetgreen
Mark Wynsma head chef at sweetgreen
Pencil sketch on white paper. The lower portion shows a portrait of Alice Waters with short, wavy hair, a gentle smile, and a necklace, wearing a loosely rendered blouse with crosshatched shading. Above her, a leafy branch stretches across the page bearing several round peaches, drawn in soft graphite shading with detailed veined leaves.
Jessica Koslow
Love letter to Alice Waters from Jessica Koslow
Photo of a weathered glass-and-wood greenhouse in a garden, seen through overhanging fig tree leaves and a branch of small green apples. In front of the greenhouse, rustic wooden potting tables hold rows of seedling trays, small potted plants, and gardening supplies. Sunlight filters through the surrounding trees onto the grassy ground below.
Ignacio Mattos
Sketch of an apple with text: we are what we eat. thank you for all your drive, care and love. always, Ignacio
Dear Alice,  There are some people who change the course of history not by shouting the loudest, but by living so faithfully into their values that the rest of us find the courage to follow. You are one of those people. Thank you for your tenacious spirit and your audacity to stand firmly in your beliefs. You imagined a world where every child has the opportunity to discover themselves through the garden and kitchen, where every farmer is honored as a teacher and steward of the land, and where food is recognized as the thread that connects our health, our communities, our education and our humanity. You believed in this vision long before the world was ready to embrace it, and because you did, generations of children, educators, and farmers have found hope in your example. I often think back to the first time we met in 2008. You came to a school garden installation I was leading at The Children’s School in Atlanta, the day after Scott Peacock closed Watershed. I couldn’t have imagined then how profoundly that meeting would shape the way I see education, leadership, and the world itself. You taught me that education begins with the senses. That learning isn’t confined to desks or textbooks but comes alive when a child smells basil for the first time, pulls a carrot from the earth, kneads bread with their own hands, or tastes a tomato still warm from 
the sun. You taught me to pay attention to every detail of a space, to create gardens and kitchens that invite wonder, belonging, curiosity, and joy.  Images of Ashley and Alice together
You also taught me to question the stories we are told. To question the trust we place in advertising and the culture of convenience that too often tells us what is good for us before we’ve had the chance to taste, touch, question, or experience it ourselves. You remind me that when we surrender our senses to someone else’s narrative, we become vulnerable to misinformation and disconnected from our own wisdom. Through Edible Schoolyard, you’ve invited generations of young people to reclaim that wisdom–to trust their own observations, their own curiosity, and their own capacity to know. Perhaps one of the greatest gifts you’ve given me is your understanding that beauty is not decoration, it is a language of care. A bowl of citrus on a table. A bouquet of wildflowers gathered from the garden. Seasonal vegetables arranged with intention. 
A thoughtfully prepared meal shared together. These gestures quietly communicate something every child desires to hear without words: you matter. Someone thought about you. You are safe here. You belong. What could be more important than that? You have shown us that beauty nurtures the spirit just as surely as food nourishes the body. The beauty is necessary for our survival because it reminds us to stay awake to the world, to resist becoming desensitized, and to recognized the sacred in everyday acts of care. As I lead the Edible Schoolyard Project today, I carry these lessons with me every single day. They shape the decisions I make, the communities I serve, and the future I hope to help cultivate. They remind me that our work has never simply been about gardens or kitchens. It has always been about dignity. About belonging. About democracy. About cultivating a generation that knows how to care for themselves, for one another, and for the earth. Thank you for seeing what was possible before the rest of us could.
Thank you for insisting that beauty belongs in schools. Thank you for believing that children deserve the very best of what we can offer. Thank you for reminding us that changing the world begins with planting a seed, setting a beautiful table, asking better questions, and inviting everyone to gather. It is one of the greatest privileges of my life to steward this work alongside you and to carry your vision forward with love, integrity, and deep gratitude. With all my admiration and love,
Ashley
Executive Director | Edible Schoolyard Project
A chef uses a knife to cut peaches on a cutting board. Spring of mint and basil surround the cut up peaches
Nancy Silverton
To Alice, From Nancy In 1976, I dined at Chez Panisse in Berkeley, California. A half century later, it is still the most inspirational meal I have ever had.  I remember walking into the dining room 
and immediately feeling I was in the House that Alice built and sensing this was going 
to be a memorable evening. And it was. Enchantment reigned. I was seduced by the menu. I was 
charmed by the knowledgeable staff. And the food. That food! The sourcing of the food to the preparation and presentation of that food in that cozy setting was divine. In 150 minutes, Chez Panisse had become my ideal restaurant. As this 22-year-old stepped away, I made 
a vow to myself; this is the restaurant that someday I would emulate. Today, as a 72-year-old, I like to think I’ve been true to my promise.  Even now, when 
I open restaurants, I emphatically honor that vow and I owe all of it to that first historic meal at Chez Panisse. When it comes to inspiration, 
Alice, no one will ever top you. 
Dear Alice,  As I’ve said, repeatedly, your kindness and generosity to me, your friendship, has made a huge difference in my life. It took me a while to realize that this was not thanks to some quality I possessed, but because you care about people.  And that caring is what led you to become instrumental in developing good food in the 
United States. “Doing good food” isn’t an intellectual exercise for you, and even less 
is it the typical strutting of stuff we associate
with most chefs.  You saw, earlier than most Americans, that 
good food was all about ingredients, that the 
way to get good ingredients was to pay attention to how they were grown, and that caring about farmers and what they practiced was at the root (sorry) of it all.  That in turn led you to see – again, before most of us – what was preventing the food system from working in the interests of most people, and what we needed to do to fix that. You’ve inspired me and thousands – millions – of others, and there’s a real way in which you’ll always be thought of as a founder of the American good food movement.  …and a wonderful friend.  Love,  Mark
Dried flowers on orange backdrop.
Photo of a large gathering of adults and children sitting on benches, blankets, and the ground beneath a big shady oak tree in an outdoor garden setting. People wear casual layered clothing and sun hats, with garden beds, a small shed, and covered plant rows visible in the background.
My Dearest Alice, With Chez Panisse, you showed us how simple, beautiful & healthy we could eat from the soil underneath our feet. With Edible Schoolyard Project, you took our little seeds that could have turned to weeds. But you brought hem into the light and changed their sight. Showing them that in their tiny little hands they have the power to change & enhance 
the land. Allowing them to see that they can be free from the powers that be. Because of you they can witness and see the abundance and Freedom that is everywhere. Thank you for showing them how to design and find 
their own path. Alice, for all you do this flower for You! Alice,
I’m sending BIG ASS LOVE & Appreciation. Ron Finley
Alison Roman
Letter handwritten by Alison
Alex Weirser - Weiser Family Farms
Dear Alice, The work you’ve done to educate a generation on the importance of 
healthy and locally grown food, is 
no small potatoes. 

Through your initiatives like the 
Edible Schoolyard Project, you’ve helped bring respect to small-scale farming by simply getting kids excited about real food! As you always say, 
you are what you eat! 

Thank you for sowing the 
seeds of love,

Alex Weiser
Al Courchesne frog hollow farms
Photo of Al at the farm with letter saying: Dear Alice,  I have many fond memories of you stopping by our stall every Saturday morning at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market. But one of my fondest is when you 
personally cooked dinner for me and my 
wife Becky at the butcher table in the middle of the downstairs kitchen at Chez Panisse. Thank you for that, and thank you for inspiring all of us to eat delicious food. Farmer Al
Dan Barber
Dear Alice, I remember my first night at Chez Panisse, in 1994, 
when a dessert leaving the pastry station caught my eye. Actually, I more or less gasped in disbelief, and that’s not because the dessert was so beautiful (it was) or because I hadn’t seen a dessert like it before (I hadn’t). I gasped 
because it was so crazy.  It was a single peach on a dessert plate, no sprig of mint, no 
swish of raspberry sauce. Just a peach, unadorned. I walked 
my New York City attitude over to the pastry chefs. You had the peaches stacked on the counter, delicately wrapped in cellophane and lined up like soldiers, awaiting deployment. The chefs lovingly cradled each peach on its way to the plate; the waiters ferried them away, walking gingerly as though they were carrying soufflés. Everyone acted as though this was nothing remarkable at all, as only Californians can act around things like fresh fruit and the weather. “Tough night,” I said to the pastry chef. Unamused, she did not respond.  I picked up a dessert menu and was introduced to my first Californian farmer.  “Mas Masumoto, Sun Crest Peach,” it said, and nothing more.  When I took a bite of it later that night, did the lights dim 
and the warmth of a religious spirit come over me? No, Alice, but I’ve never tasted something quite so peachy. I remember thinking that the peach had a fullness of flavor to it— bold, like a stew of meat— that made me think I had in my mouth something much richer than fruit.  I was struck as much by the acidity as by the sweetness. It was like a nicely balanced wine. The juice ran down my face and chin. One bite, and then another few bites, and pretty soon all that remained were bits of flesh sticking to my face.  Masumoto’s peaches were incredibly delicious. But more 
than that— as if a peach needs to be more than that—it 
taught me that good food as inseparable from good farming. Scratch that. You taught me this invaluable lesson; the peach was just the textbook. You were saying: Taste what Mas Masumoto created; 
I can’t do better. You did not say what most chefs say: 
Taste this dessert I made with Mas’s peaches. I recognized through you the chef I wanted to be and 
I will be forever grateful. Dan
Suzanne Goin
Dear Alice, THank you for yyour love of food, cooking, produce, farmers, ranchers, cooks, kids, schools, learning, gardens, farms and most importantly for working tirelessly for years to teach all of us about what matters most. Viva edible school yard, with love, Suzanne Goin - letter has hand sketched vegetables of an orange, radish, kale leaf, and tomato
Close-up photo of two woven baskets overflowing with fresh peaches, some still with green leaves attached, resting on a weathered wooden counter beside an old outdoor sink with a spigot, in front of a rustic wooden building with a window.
David Gelb
Letter: Dear Alice, Alice — Iʼm writing (recording) this from France, and I canʼt think of a more fitting place. This is where you first fell in love with food: markets full of whatʼs in season, meals shared slowly, a whole way of life built around the table. You carried that home and gave it to America. When approaching your episode for Chefʼs Table: Legends, I always knew your story was about far more than a restaurant. But our conversations changed me. You taught me that a plate of food carries everything with it — where it came from, who grew it, and the story that it tells. Edible Schoolyard moved me most— I love your idea of how a garden and a kitchen can enrich the lives of children. Because of you, I think differently about how I want to eat, how I want my sons to eat — and how I want them to cook. It was an honor to tell your story on Chefʼs Table, but Iʼll carry the lessons beyond, into everything I make from here. Alice, thank you. With love, 
David Gelb
José Andres
José Andres letter saying: My dear Alice, Some people teach new recipes. You have taught us so much more. You taught us that our food begins long 
before the first bite: with healthy soil, a 
caring farmer, and a common belief that the goodness of the earth belongs to everyone. You started a revolution...not with using 
anger or force, but by being gentle and kind. You changed the way we eat…so that we 
could change the way we care for each
other and for the world around us. You showed me that changing the world 
can begin with the simple act of helping 
a curious child fall in love with a perfect peach…and nurturing that small seed into 
a beautiful garden of possibilities. Thank you for reminding all of us that the most important ingredient is respect…respect for the earth, for farmers, for cooks, for children...for each other. With love, José
Sam Kass
Dear Alice,  Whether they know it or not, anyone working to make food better in America—or even just cook a better meal—stands on your shoulders. No one person has been more transformational in improving what we eat than you. You have been unrelenting and uncompromising in your insistence that everyone, particularly children, should be nourished with the highest quality food. Anything short of that was simply not good enough regardless of what it took. Turns out you’ve been right all along. While the work 
”has never been easy your steadfast effort 
has been rooted in joy and love which anyone feels when they walk into Chez Panisse. 
I am better after every moment we share 
and always look forward to the next chance 
to envision a better future with you. When people ask me what you are like I tell them that Alice is hard to describe but I consider her to be my Fairy God Mother, bringing love, kindness and generosity everywhere she goes.  I love you always and forever.  Sam
David Chang
Dear Alice,  You’ve meant a great deal to me for a long time and I’m not sure I’ve ever properly thanked you for it. One of the first times we met you told me 
to do everything slow. Not just the cooking. Everything. Life…all of it. It took me a 
long time to understand what you meant. 
I was usually moving too fast. But I finally get it and it shapes how I cook, work and 
live to this day. What I admire most is watching you give that same lesson to the next generation. Teaching kids how to cook, how to eat, how to sit down at a table and care about it. You’ve never waited for anyone to catch up. You just lead. So this is me with real gratitude and respect saying thank you. For everything you’ve taught me and everything you continue 
to teach all of us  David Chang
Michael Pollan
Ripeness is All: The Fruit Bowl I arrived at the party that is Chez Panisse fairly late in its history, some time during its fourth decade. My first meal at the restaurant, upstairs in the Café, came during the late spring or early summer of 2001, and, a decade later, I cannot tell you what I had for dinner. It might have been the salmon, which at the time were still running not far outside the Golden Gate. The only thing I really remember from that meal was not a dish exactly, at least nothing cooked, though it did appear on the menu. It was, very simply, a bowl of fruit—some peaches. The menu gave the name of the farmer and the variety, neither of which meant anything to me at the time. But figuring those peaches had to be something pretty special to earn a spot on that menu –and to command a price only a dollar or two shy of the profiteroles and galette– I ordered it for dessert, not quite sure whether a plain bowl of fruit on a restaurant menu was best interpreted as an expression of culinary modesty or culinary audacity. What arrived at the table was a small, unpolished bowl of hammered copper set atop a round, hammered copper base, and in that bowl rested two perfect peaches wreathed in a scatter of equally perfect raspberries. But by “perfect” I don’t just mean perfect looking, like a picture of fruit in a painting or magazine, though they were that, too: blushing, downy, plumped with juice. 
No, this was the higher perfection Ralph Waldo Emerson had in mind when he wrote, in reference to a very different fruit, “There are only ten minutes in the life of a pear when it is perfect to eat.” In the case of a peach, that window is probably closer to seven minutes, and in the case of raspberries, maybe five. The wonder of it was that the kitchen had somehow arranged for those peaches and raspberries to land on our table not a moment sooner or later than that narrow interlude of perfection. At the risk of offending the restaurant’s many gifted chefs, that unadorned bowl of unimproved fruit strikes me as the essence of Chez Panisse, captures the restaurant’s philosophy in a copper bowl. Since the fruit bowl first appeared on the menu in 1991, the presentation of the perfect Sun Crest Peach or Warren pear has been Alice Waters’ wordless way of saying that the true genius behind her food resides in the farmers who grew it and the breeders who bred it; the chef merely celebrates that genius by seizing on the moment of moments and setting it off between the quotation marks of a dish. Which is why the menu goes to the trouble of informing us that the peach is a Sun Crest, the pear a Warren, and the tiny tangerine a kishu. There are times, the kitchen is saying, when no amount of culinary artifice can improve on what nature has already perfected, and it would be folly –hubris!– to try.
Not that there isn’t a kind of genius in selecting that perfect peach or pear or tangerine. Samantha Greenwood, who worked in pastry back when the fruit bowl made its first appearance, remembers the hours spent sorting (and tasting) through bushel baskets looking for the Elect — a few dozen peaches worthy of the copper bowl. On the days when she couldn’t find enough of them, the fruit bowl simply fell off the menu. The fruit bowl is also a kind of timepiece, a way of marking the seasonal calendar, which is a rite that has always been central to the restaurant’s project. When Churchill’s kishus show up it must be late December; Swanton’s strawberries say May, and the mulberries– the most fleeting fruit of all— signal the start of summer: somewhere around the third week of June. These moments remind us exactly where we are in the round of the year, or rather, where nature is. But try not to miss the moment of the mulberries, a fruit so fragile and ephemeral it’s fallen completely out of commerce, except here on Shattuck Avenue on the very day they arrive. The mulberries, which come from a single tree in Sonoma owned by a man named Hugh Byrne, perhaps best exemplify the restaurant’s fierce devotion to the knick of time. Okay, but is it cooking? Some would say no; the rap in certain culinary circles is that what Chez Panisse does best more closely resembles inspired shopping than inspired cooking. But I doubt that particular critique carries much of a sting in this particular kitchen. 
For Alice Water’s genius has been to show us there can be no inspired cooking without inspired shopping and, behind that, inspired farming. It’s become a cliché of restaurant menus to mention farms, but Chez Panisse was the first to share bylines –pride of authorship– with the men and women who grow the food, recognizing that many of them are as gifted as any who have passed through the fabled kitchen. So we learn that the kishu was grown by Jim Churchill and Lisa Brenneis in Ojai, the Warren pear by Farmer Al at Frog Hollow Farm in Brentwood, and the Sun Crest peach by Mas Masumoto down near Fresno. The modesty of the fruit bowl consists in these acknowledgements. But make no mistake, there is a certain audacity in play here too. It is the audacity of a Marcel Duchamp or Andy Warhol, artists who understood that sometimes the best art is found, not made. To pluck something out of the welter of the world and put a frame around it, or in this case a copper bowl, is a way of making us stop and pay attention, so that we might see the familiar with 
fresh eyes, and in this case not just eyes, but with every sense. Rightly seen, rightly tasted, the fruit bowl reminds us, the commonplace becomes miraculous. First published in 40 Years of Chez Panisse: The Power of Gathering
Image with green background and green text that says "Good Food Should Be A Right Not A Privilege"