Tag Archives: fruit

How to Eat a Cherimoya (Chirimoya)

15 Apr

It’s really simple–cut it in half, and eat it with a spoon. That’s how my Bolivian grandmother (who adored this creamy Andean fruit) ate it–delicately scooping out the seeds she encountered, and then savoring small spoonfuls of the custard-like flesh. I also love cherimoyas (or as I grew up calling them: chirimoyas), though I only ever ate them in Bolivia as they were impossible to find in the United States. But that has been changing, to the point that last week, they appeared  in the “exotic” fruit section of my local grocery store. What a treat! I took some home, let them soften up a bit (they should be quite soft to the touch, but not completely mushy), and then dug in. Yum…. Mark Twain considered cherimoyas the most delicious fruit ever (having tasted them in Hawaii, after they were introduced there via Spain and Portugal)–and I’d have to agree. But don’t be tempted to bite into a seed; the insides are toxic.

This fruit is also known as a Custard Apple, and I get the “custard” part, but can’t figure out the “apple” part; perhaps it’s due to the shape? Because a cherimoya doesn’t taste anything like an apple. What it does taste like is an entire tropical fruit salad pureed into a silky, sweet, tangy custard. It’s a vitamin-rich (B6 and C) dessert in its own green cup. One day I may be tempted to make a cherimoya flan, or some cherimoya ice cream, or perhaps a cherimoya smoothie, but it’s hard to mess with perfection. Really, all you need is a spoon.

  

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

An Unexpected and (Re)Productive Study of the California Poppy

21 Mar

Sometimes, blown car tires lead to unexpected opportunities. While in California on our way to Monterey, our tire blew out on the freeway and very spectacularly separated itself from the rim. Our oldest son was driving and successfully steered the car to the side of the road, with the help of a kind truck driver, who stopped traffic in the right lane to let us over. While the spare tire was being put on, I noticed a cheery patch of poppies down a small hill, and headed there with my camera, whereupon I had an impromptu lesson in reproduction–of the floral kind.

The Golden State loves golden symbols, so it’s no surprise the California Poppy is the state flower. It’s a favorite of many gardeners, but also grows wild across California and elsewhere; masses of poppies make some Western mountains look as if they have been dusted with orange-yellow confetti. They also grow by the roadside, where I was lucky enough to get to study them for a little while. In that scraggly patch, there were poppies at all stages of development, from buds to full flowers, to seed pods.


The flower buds are encased in a calyx made up of two fused sepals; the papery cap slowly gets pushed off as the four overlapping poppy petals begin to unfurl.

  
Inside the cup-shaped flower itself are the stamens (pollen-tipped male reproductive organs) and the pistil (female organ), waiting for pollinators–usually bees, but also beetles and flies–to help ensure a new generation of Eschscholzia californica. This is the plant’s  very civilized (and somewhat passive) Plan A in terms of reproduction.


But, there’s a Plan B, too–and it’s a bit more lively. Once the poppy’s main flowering cycle comes to an end, the petals start dropping off, revealing an elongated seed pod (fruit) sitting on the disk-like torus. The pod gets longer and bigger, starts drying up in the sun, and finally bursts open, ejecting seeds as far as 6 feet away. This type of seed dispersal has a great name: explosive dehiscence.  Oh, how I wish I could have seen it in action.

  
So, what pollinators cannot achieve, the plant takes care of on its own, spreading its wealth just a bit further one seed pod at a time. Something to admire this April 6, which is California Poppy day.

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sweetness or Deceit? Attracting Pollinators

28 Sep

Plants are wily, in their own ways. Some beguile with sweetness, others lure with deceit. This weekend at the United States Botanic Garden, I saw examples of both.

The Jamaican Poinsettia (Euphorbia punicea) takes the nicer approach. Below, you can see the brightly colored bracts, which are modified leaves, and a yellow, cup-like flower cluster called a cyathium. Insects are attracted to the clusters by the reddish-pink bracts and are then rewarded with the sugary nectar; in the photo, the glistening drops are almost overflowing from the cups. Arising from the center of the cluster is the pistil (the female reproductive organ), with three curved stigmas at the top, waiting to receive a dusting of pollen from the visiting pollinator.


Successful pollination leads to the development of a seed-bearing fruit. But if the plant has not been successfully pollinated, the fruit may wilt and never produce seeds.

Other plants, such as the Carrion Flower (Stapelia gigantea), attract pollinators by pretending to be (and smell like) something they are not: rotting flesh. You might think that if someone knows a flower smells like a decomposing mammal, s/he would avoid taking a sniff. But no. I partook of the putrid odor more than once, and can confirm that the flower does indeed smell vile. I pointed this out to other passersby, who also conducted repeated olfactory experiments of their own with identical results…. But back to the plant. In addition to its odor, this wrinkly and hairy flower is also meant to look like a decaying, oozing, leathery, peeling dead animal.


And boy, do some insects love that. Perfect spot to lay eggs, with plenty of food for the larvae, or so they think. They are mistaken; their reproductive efforts are futile. But they will have served their purpose: to help ensure the reproduction of the plant by taking and depositing pollen as they go about their business. A devious deception indeed. Here is a close up of the inside of the flower, complete with a green bottle fly circling around, and a pile of ill-fated eggs below.

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Recipe: Pavlova

27 Apr

We lived in Australia for four years and loved every minute of it, leaving behind dear friends and wonderful memories. One of those memories was of Pavlova, a beautifully light and sweet dessert named after the Russian prima ballerina Anna Pavlova, who toured Australia and New Zealand in the 1920s. There has been a long-standing debate based on primary and secondary sources and lots of national pride, as to whether the dessert was first created  in New Zealand or Australia. Though the scales may have now tipped toward New Zealand (with the Oxford English Dictionary crediting the first written record of the recipe to New Zealand), it is a question that may never be satisfactorily answered; in an elegant diplomatic maneuver, the OED also lists the origin of pavlova as “Austral. and N.Z.”

For our family, the answer is simple: since we first encountered Pavlova in Australia, it will for us forever remain as one of our favorite Australian desserts.

The version in the photo below is a double recipe, prepared in a rimmed 18 x 12-inch jelly roll pan–which was a mistake. There was no easy way to get the meringue out and onto a serving platter without shattering it into pieces–so we served the Pavlova straight from the pan, lifting each piece off the baking/parchment paper with a thin spatula. It was a bit messier than usual, but due to the amazing decorating job by three enthusiastic teenagers, and to the fantastic blend of flavors that has made this such a beloved recipe, no one minded. In the future, though, I’ll remember to use an unrimmed baking sheet….

pavlova

Pavlova
8 servings

6 large egg whites
pinch salt
1 1/2 c. + 1/8 c. sugar
2 tsp. cornstarch
1 tsp. white vinegar

1 1/2 c. cream
2 tsp. sugar
1 tsp. vanilla

1 large punnet strawberries, hulled and sliced
1 small punnet blackberries
1 small punnet raspberries
2 kiwis, peeled and sliced

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Draw a 9″ circle on baking/parchment paper and place it on a baking sheet. Spray the paper with baking spray.
3. Combine egg whites and the pinch of salt in a very clean and completely dry large bowl, and beat until stiff peaks form (you can also use a stand mixer). Gradually add sugar, a tablespoon or two at a time, beating constantly, until the mixture is very glossy and the bowl can be held upside down without the meringue falling out. Gently whisk in the cornstarch and vinegar.
4. Using a spatula, spread the mixture onto the paper circle on the baking sheet; smooth the top with the spatula.
5. Place the baking sheet in the oven and bake the meringue for 5 minutes, then turn the heat down to 270 degrees and bake another 75 minutes, or until the outside of the meringue is crisp, but the inside is soft and chewy. Turn the oven off and leave the meringue in the oven, with the door ajar, for 15 minutes.
6. Slide the meringue, still on the baking paper, onto a rack and allow to cool completely. It will crack a bit when cooling; this is normal. Using two spatulas or a pizza peel, carefully lift the meringue off the baking paper and place on a serving platter.
7. Whip the cream with the sugar and vanilla until stiff peaks form. Try to use as little sugar in the whipped cream as your palate will allow, to offset the very sweet meringue.
8. Spread the whipped cream on the meringue and add the fruit in a decorative pattern. (The great thing about pavlovas is you can decorate them any way you like, with whatever fruit you prefer.)

Recipe adapted from Australian Table magazine.

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

What’s in a Name? Robin Redbreast

6 Feb

It’s February, which in the Northern hemisphere qualifies as being just about half way between Christmas and spring. So it’s appropriate to talk about robins right now. In some places, they are symbols of Christmas, and in others they are a sign of spring. Either way, the copper-chested birds are a cheery site to behold. Despite their burnt orange coloring, the birds were originally known as Robin Redbreasts–because 500 or so years ago in Europe, there was no name for the color orange. “Yellow-red” was as close as people got to describing that happy blend of the two primary colors. But when a certain citrus fruit became more widely eaten, the color found a new name: orange. The first recorded use of that word as a color was in 1512.

But back to robins. The color is named after the fruit, and the American Robin is named after the European one. Except that it is now clear they are not closely related. European robins are chats, while American Robins are members of the thrush family. One is smaller and rounder, while the other is longer and leaner looking. The only thing they share is  a spot of orange on the breast, and even then, one bird has a small copper patch high up while the other has a longer one most of the way down. And the rest of their markings are not very similar. But early Europeans encountering these birds in North America in the 17th and 18th centuries thought they looked like robins, and named them accordingly. 

I blame these early settlers for the noteworthy bout of avian befuddlement I recently experienced. I repeatedly came across a very friendly little bird during the few days we were in Ireland at Christmas and took several photos of it, all the while wondering what it was and chiding myself for not knowing. It looked almost like a little sparrow, except for that orange coloring (and the beak… and probably a number of other things). What could that bird be? Imagine my chagrin when I discovered it was a robin–how is it possible to not recognize a robin when staring straight at one? I can only say that the robin I have always known is the American one, and I was unprepared to identify the European version. I offer up these photos as evidence: first a European Robin (Erithacus rubecula), then its American counterpart (Turdus migratorius).  And then I rest my case. (Not sure how much of a case it is, but I rest it anyway).

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Recipe: Raspberry Oatmeal Bars

25 Feb

Quick, easy, and full of oaty goodness, these bars work multiple jobs: they can be a snack, dessert, or even part of breakfast. They are also a good way to use up jam or preserves if, like us, you have a variety of half-full jam jars in the fridge (a state of affairs that arises when family members each have a favorite). Whenever I want to clear out the fridge, I make these bars. But truthfully, fridge clearing isn’t the main reason to make these; we quite frequently open new jars of jam just for this recipe, starting the cycle all over again. The bars are worth it.

This weekend, I actually did use up all that remained of a jar of regular raspberry preserves, but there wasn’t quite enough for the recipe. Solution? I topped up the measuring cup with a bit of black raspberry jam. That’s the other good thing about these oatmeal bars –they are very versatile: a blackberry, blueberry, cherry, or strawberry/rhubarb filling would work quite nicely, too.

Raspberry Oatmeal Bars
9 or 16 servings

3 c. quick-cooking oats
2/3 c. whole wheat flour
1/2 tsp. salt
2/3 c. canola oil
1/2 c. maple syrup
2 tsp. vanilla
2/3 c. raspberry (or other fruit) preserves/jam, stirred until smooth

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray a 9×9-inch baking pan with cooking spray (or lightly oil the pan).
2. Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl.
3. Combine wet ingredients, and add to dry ingredients, mixing well.
4. Put half of oat mixture into baking pan, and press firmly and evenly into place with the back of a spoon.
5. Spread the preserves/jam evenly over the oat layer. Loosely cover the filling with the remaining oat mixture.
6. Bake for 35-40 minutes; let cool 15 minutes before serving.
7. Cut into 9 squares for hearty servings, or 16 squares for smaller bites.

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,