February 11, 2004
PAWPAWS
While reading Kelley's tale of her grandfather's hossly self-preservation I started thinking about Paw Paws in general, and pawpaws in specific. See, four or five years ago I began wondering (workplaces being sublime venues for this) what the hell a pawpaw was. I vaguely knew they grew in patches, down yonder, and that at some point someone had been down in that patch, but the cataracts of my memory were clouded, and I could recollect no more.
So I went a googling, and discovered that the pawpaw (Asimina triloba) was an edible fruit growing naturally in the states, as far north as New York and as far west as Nebraska. It's also known as the American Custard Apple, the West Virginia Banana, and the Indiana Banana (I like that one. Sounds like a Midwest porn star). They were apparently a big favorite of the Injuns, but fell out of favor around the turn of the last century.
There's plenty of research going on with the pawpaw. Kentucky State University has 1,700 trees from 17 states they are testing, trying to find the best varieties for consumers through seeding and propagation studies, orchard management, and storage techniques.
This is all wonderful information, but some years later my basic question is still unanswered: where can I buy a fucking pawpaw? I want to taste one. I'm always up for a new fruit. Let's face it: I like my citrus trees, but I need some diversity. I still have a whole veggie bin full of Ponderosa lemons (the size of Kong's balls), and 40-odd ounces of frozen key lime juice. Scurvy Watch has been cancelled in the Velocihovel, and Curious George is back in town.
So I figure if I like them, I'll plant a couple. Hell, I'd even drive to Orlando or Tampa to fetch them. Actually, I could take the girls, the mutinous heathens, so the return trip could be a cracker reenactment of Bligh's ill-considered breadfruit caper, only this time Bligh wins. A simple victory would suffice; no sense explaining to them the lessons of Bounty of perserverance, duty, and the Darwinian nature of impressed sailors to prefer bare-chested Polynesian women over sodomy and the lash. They got enough of that from the Babysitters Club books.
So I'm blegging you, as the "hip" pundits at The Corner say. Who's holding out on the pawpaws?