Regular readers may have noticed that I (Katherine) sometimes go on a rant the week before Thanksgiving. This tradition is probably nothing more than a small annual outburst of snarky impatience that has accumulated over a long academic quarter, but I prefer to pretend that I am clearing space in my heart for gratitude. In past years I’ve gotten worked up about cooked celery, green bean casserole, and, most righteously, pecan pie. This year, my target is pickled peaches.Continue reading
Why are some kiwifruits green when they are ripe? Or avocados or honeydew melons? The answer involves genetic accidents, photosynthesis, hidden pigments, and the words “monkey peach.”
In our kiwifruit fuzziness essay we described how the type and density of trichomes—the hairlike projections from the fruit’s skin that create the fuzziness—in the Actinidia chinensis species complex is correlated with the habitat in China to which a particular population is adapted and the ploidy level of its genome. Only polyploid (having multiple genome copies) Actinidia chinensis occupy the harshest environments—the high, arid reaches of western China—and have the highest trichome density and the longest trichomes. And those fuzzy, resilient, polyploid kiwifruits are all green on the inside (1). They are the plant kingdom’s version of an unshaved vegan after backcountry skiing for a week. The hardy plant had no trouble growing outside its plateau of origin and became the most common commercial kiwifruit in the world (A. chinensis var. deliciosa), followed closely by yellow-fleshed (“golden”), less fuzzy variants of the same species (A. chinensis var. chinensis).
An expanded view of the dozens of Actinidia species reveals orange, red, and purplish pigments that color fruits in the genus. While beautiful, this warm palette strikes me as noteworthy only in contrast to the bright green displayed by the fuzzy A. chinensis var. deliciosa that initially grabbed my attention, and, later, in green kiwiberries (A. arguta). A non-green (for lack of better terminology, “colorful”) ripe fruit, after all, is a common end point for species with fleshy fruit.
It is not difficult, however, to bring to mind other examples of species with green-ripe fruit: avocado, green grapes, some citrus, honeydew melon (I’m specifically thinking here of the pericarp or mesocarp tissue under the skin and exclude from this discussion immature fruits that lose their greenness when fully ripe, like green beans and olives). Green ripe fruit, then, in Actinidia and other taxa, seems to me to be something to explain. What, if any, function might it serve, and what are the mechanisms responsible?
While the literature on the subject is far from exhaustive, there is a fairly pedestrian explanation at least for the mechanism, if not any adaptive function, of unusually green fruit flesh outside of Actinidia: fruits start green, and straightforward mutations in a few key genes cause them to remain so. Like that intrepid, hirsute montane vegan, though, Actinidia performs the task a little differently, and it is a bit of a mystery. To understand why that is, we need some backstory on pigments in fruit and how and why they change as fruit ripens, with a focus on Actinidia. Continue reading
Kiwifruit is not covered in hairs. It’s covered in trichomes. And only if you’re talking about green Actinidia chinensis var. deliciosa. But, why? One answer is: pretty much to keep it from drying out. Another is: because it’s a polyploid from western China and was kind of chosen at random to be the most commonly grown kiwifruit, and they’re not all fuzzy. Those aren’t mutually exclusive answers. Put on your ecophysiology hats and grab a paring knife.
Think of fruit growth as a balancing act between ingoing and outgoing fluxes. When the balance is positive, fruits grow. When it is negative, they shrink—or shrivel. The main fluxes in question are carbon and water, which enter the fruit from the xylem and phloem of the plant vascular system. Water is lost mainly to the atmosphere via transpiration (evaporative water lost through stomata and other pores and from the skin surface). Keeping the ledger positive isn’t an easy job for a fruit. Hot, dry, and windy weather encourages transpiration and thereby increases the odds that a fruit will experience water stress. Excessive sunlight may cause sunburn. Fruits also need to avoid attack from pathogens and herbivores before the seeds within mature. A fruit’s skin—its cuticle and epidermis—is its first line of defense against abiotic and biotic threats. Some fruits resort to creative coverings to get the job done.
Here I’ll take a close look at the skin of kiwifruits. Why, exactly, are they so fuzzy?
Maybe the name takes you back to gentler days of Moosewood Cookbook and the dusty spicy local co-op. Or maybe you were a kid back then and fell for a chocolate bait-and-switch. Whether you are sweetly nostalgic or wary and resentful, it’s worth giving carob another chance. Katherine argues that it’s time to pull this earthy crunchy 70’s food into the superfood age. She offers foraging tips and recipes to help you get to know carob on its own terms.
From November through January, the carob trees in my neighborhood dangle hard, lumpy, dark brown fruits resembling lacquered cat turds. They are delicious and nutritious and of course I collect them. I am, without apology, a pod plundering, legume looting, pirate of the carob bean. If you seek adventure and happen to live in California, Arizona, or on the Mediterranean coast, you can probably pilfer some carob fruits yourself and play with them in your kitchen. If you lack local trees or the pirate spirit, you can order carob powder and even whole carob beans with one simple click.
Although plundering season begins just as the year is ending, I always wait until January to gather carob fruits for two reasons. First, carob functions mainly as a healthful chocolate substitute, and during the holiday season, fake chocolate just seems sad. In January, however, eating locally foraged carob feels virtuous and resourceful. Second, November and December are when my local carobs make the flowers that will produce the next year’s crop, and those flowers smell like a pirate’s nether parts after a shore leave. Or so I imagine, and not without precedent. A man who should have been inured to such salty smells, Pliny the Elder, natural historian and commander in the Roman Imperial Navy, described the flowers as having “a very powerful odor.” It’s not clear why these flowers have a sort of seaman scent, since the main volatiles wafting from the flowers – linalools and farnesene – smell like lilies and gardenias (Custódio et al., 2006). In any case, I keep my distance until the flowers have finished mating season.
Despite their stinky flowers, carobs make great street trees and produce a valuable crop in many Mediterranean-type climates. They are beautiful, tolerant of dry and poor soils, pest resistant, and tidy. Carobs are legumes – like familiar peas and beans – but they belong to a different branch of the legume family (Caesalpinioideae), one that contains mostly trees and woody shrubs with tough inedible fruit (Legume Phylogeny Working Group, 2017). Carob pods look about as edible as Jack Sparrow’s boots, and the species’ scientific name, Ceratonia siliqua, means “horny long pod,” which well captures the intimidating nature of their leathery fruit. But as you will see below, the fruits are easy to harvest and process, and their sweet pulp is worth seeking out. Continue reading
We are knee deep in peach season, and now is the time to gather the most diverse array of peaches you can find and unite them in jam. Katherine reports on some new discoveries about the genetics behind peach diversity and argues for minting up your peach jam.
Fresh peaches at their peak are fuzzy little miracles, glorious just as they are. But their buttery mouthfeel and dripping juice are lost when peaches are processed into jam and spread across rough toast. To compensate for textural changes, cooked peaches need a bit more adornment to heighten their flavor, even if it’s only a sprinkling of sugar. Normally I am not tempted to meddle with perfection by adding ginger or lavender or other flavors to peach jam. This year, however, as I plotted my jam strategy, the unusual juxtaposition of peach and mint found its way into my imagination over and over again, like the insistent echo of radio news playing in the background. Peach and mint, peach and mint, peach and mint – almost becoming a single word. To quiet the voice in my head I had to make some peach-mint jam. The odd combination turned out to be wonderful, and I’m now ready to submit the recipe to a candid world. As we will see below, it’s not without precedent. Mmmmmmpeachmint jam. Continue reading
Winter is the season for citrus fruit, and January is the month for breaking out of old routines, so stop staring at your navel and learn about one of the weirder citrus varieties.
I’ll never forget the day one of my general botany students brought to class a Buddha’s hand citron, pulled from a tree right outside our classroom. I had only recently moved to northern California from Indiana, and I’d never seen anything like it: it was a monstrous mass of a dozen pointed twisted fingers splayed irregularly from a stout base. It had the firm heft and girth of a grapefruit and the unmistakable pebbled skin of a citrus fruit, so I wondered whether my student had found a grossly deformed grapefruit; but the oil in the peel smelled heavenly and not at all like a grapefruit. In class we cut through a big finger and found no juicy segments, just white citrus pith all the way through.
We eventually discovered that this fascinating fruit was a Buddha’s hand citron, Citrus medica variety sarcodactylis, meaning fleshy (sarco-) fingered (-dactyl) citron. Since that day many years ago I’ve become an unapologetic (if surreptitious) collector of the fruits from that same campus tree. The citrons do not drop from the tree on their own, yet I often find one or two lying nearby, probably torn off by a curious tourist or student and then abandoned. Obviously these fruits need a good home, and where better than the window sill in my office?
The first time I left one closed up in my office over a weekend, I opened the door on Monday morning to a waft of fruity floral aroma. It turns out that many people in China and India use the fruit to scent the air, although in west Asia and Europe the fleshy fingers are more often candied or used to flavor alcohol. I do both: the fruits make my office smell nice until they are fully yellow, and then I cook them.
It can be difficult or expensive to get your own hands on a fingered citron, but it’s easy to find a navel orange almost any time of the year. Fortunately, the patterns underlying the morphology of the fingered fruit can also be seen in an everyday navel orange. Between our photos of Buddha’s hands and your own navel orange, you should be able to follow along at home. Continue reading
The United Nations declared 2016 the International Year of Pulses. What’s a pulse? It’s the dry mature seed of a large number of species in the legume family (Fabaceae): various beans, peas, soybean, chickpeas, lentils, peanuts and other groundnuts. 2016 is days from ending, so it’s high time I get up the Fabaceae diversity post I’ve been meaning to write all year long. This rounds out our year of legume coverage, which included Katherine’s posts on bean anatomy, peanuts, and green beans.
One out of every 15 flowering plant (angiosperm) species is a legume, a member of the large plant family Fabaceae (Christenhusz and Byng 2016, LPWG 2013). Boasting around 19,500 species in 750-ish genera (LPWG 2013), the Fabaceae is the third-largest plant family in the world, trailing behind only the orchid (Orchidaceae: 27,800 species) and aster (Asteraceae: 25,040 species) families (Stevens 2016). By my count, people only use about 1% of legume species for food (my list of edible legume species is found here), but that small fraction of species is mighty. People eat and grow legumes because they are nutritional superstars, can be found in almost all terrestrial ecosystems around the world, and uniquely contribute to soil fertility in both wild and agricultural ecosystems. Continue reading
What’s in a name? An apple with an old fashioned name could taste as sweet, but it might not sell. The most sought after branded varieties reveal what people look for in an apple: sweet and crunchy and bright white inside. Do the fruits live up to their names? Are Honeycrisp apples crunchier than others? Do Arctics actually stay white? We zoom in on the cells to find out.
Some of you will remember the era when the Superbowl halftime show repeatedly featured Up With People. That was around the time when Granny Smiths arrived in our supermarkets and finally gave Americans a third apple, a tart and crunchy alternative to red and golden delicious. Those were simple days. Continue reading
Infinity scarves? No. They won’t keep doctors away. Apples are the ultimate everyday accessory (fruit). Katherine explains where the star in the apple comes from. Could it be due to a random doubling of chromosomes? We also give readers the chance to test their apple knowledge with a video quiz.
Although apples are not particularly American – nor is apple pie – they color our landscape from New York City to Washington State, all thanks to Johnny Appleseed. Or so goes the legend. Everyone already knows a lot about apples, and for those wanting more, there are many engaging and beautifully written stories of their cultural history, diversity, and uses. See the reference list below for some good ones. There is no way I could cover the same ground, so instead I’ll keep this post short and sweet (or crisp and tart) by focusing on apple fruit structure and some interesting new studies that shed light on it.
Of course if you do want to learn more about apple history but have only 5 minutes, or if you want to test your current knowledge, take our video quiz! It’s at the bottom of this page. Continue reading
Flavorful and juicy thought it may be, Thanksgiving turkey, for me, is merely the vehicle for the real star of the meal: cranberry sauce. And cranberry is in the same genus as blueberries, lingonberries, huckleberries, and billberries. And they all make their own pectin. Let us give thanks this holiday season for Vaccinium.
Cranberry sauce is my favorite staple item at our big holiday dinners. Long-prized by indigenous North Americans, cranberries would have been in the diet of those Native Americans participating in the first Thanksgiving if not part of the meal itself. When the fresh cranberries hit the stores in late fall, we stock up. Cranberries, however, are not the only member of their genus that is perennially in our freezers or in our annual diet: blueberries, many huckleberries, lingonberries, and billberries are all in the large genus Vaccinium (family Ericaceae, order Ericales). Continue reading