Durian

The kings of myth, legend, and cinema are typically the pinnacle of man. Handsome, noble, wise, unwavering; faultless creatures that transcend their biological form.

But then there's the occasional deviation, and one methinks probably more true to reality: the rotting, decrepit, corrupt monarch. Almost as vile in appearance as his foul essence within, this is the king who hath inspired many a violent revolution.

It is the latter of these two extremes that comes to mind when I hear durian described as the king of fruits. This is no just and noble monarch but he will certainly bring you to your knees.

Durian is legendary, particularly among any community fascinated with strange and exotic fruits. In many south-east Asian countries it is illegal to carry them on public transport and they are banned from many hotels. It's not hard to understand why but upon first glance the reasons aren't so obvious.

I first encountered durian in the flesh at a local flea market. The giant spiky ball was far too exotic to resist. I had a sneaking suspicion as to what it might be but I wasn't certain. This giant weapon of war had a sweet, floral fragrance; definitely not what I had learned to expect. Twelve dollars later and the 15 pound monster was dangling from my arm, imparting a strange feeling of power. Well, to be honest, there was nothing too strange about it. This was nature's version of the medieval mace. I could have crushed the skull of any would-be attacker looking to steal my day's bounty.

Upon arriving home, the strange treasure was too enticing to save for later so I quickly turned to the all-knowing internet to identify my catch. And there it was: Durian, the king of fruits, the most infamous of the world's edible (and survivable) plant products that doesn't illicit some sort of pharmacological reaction (except as a possible emetic).

Careful surgery is required to pierce the tough, thorny exterior to reach the flesh within, particularly if you don't want to damage yourself in the process. Regardless of the delicacy of the operation, this surgery is best performed outdoors, preferably with materials that are disposable or easy to wash. After the first cut, the reason for this becomes more than apparent.

From the recesses of the initial incision flows a stench reminiscent of an open sewer. Perhaps a bit more floral, but the stench of rot and sulphur dominates the surrounding air. One begins to suspect that this is no mere fruit, but the egg of some foul demonic creature.

Removing a portion of the husk to reveal the flesh within does little to quell this suspicion. An embryo? A large maggot-like larva? Scrambled eggs? I can't be expected to put that in my mouth, can I?

Yes, that's it, the edible flesh, the king of fruits and the source of the foul stench. So what's there to do but hold your nose and dig in?

How can I describe the taste? While I think about it, here's a few choice quotes from other, more gifted scribes on the subject:

"The five cells are silky-white within, and are filled with a mass of firm, cream-coloured pulp, containing about three seeds each. This pulp is the edible part, and its consistence and flavour are indescribable. A rich custard highly flavoured with almonds gives the best general idea of it, but there are occasional wafts of flavour that call to mind cream-cheese, onion-sauce, sherry-wine, and other incongruous dishes. Then there is a rich glutinous smoothness in the pulp which nothing else possesses, but which adds to its delicacy. It is neither acid nor sweet nor juicy; yet it wants neither of these qualities, for it is in itself perfect. It produces no nausea or other bad effect, and the more you eat of it the less you feel inclined to stop. In fact, to eat Durians is a new sensation worth a voyage to the East to experience. ... as producing a food of the most exquisite flavour it is unsurpassed" - Alfred Russell Wallace

"... its odor is best described as pig-shit, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock. It can be smelled from yards away." - Richard Sterling

"Its taste can only be described as...indescribable, something you will either love or despise. ...Your breath will smell as if you'd been French-kissing your dead grandmother." - Anthony Bourdain

And tweeted by the ever-so eloquent and charming Steven Fry:
"@stephenfry: Eating durian fruit by the roadside. A stench straight from Satan's anal ring, but a taste from an angel's sugared nipple."

My assessment? Rotten egg and banana cream omelette with hints of year old mango cheesecake. At least that's what the sweeter, custardy parts taste like. The rubbery, egg-like flesh tastes like pure, unadulterated rot. But yes, the sweet custard; only mildly reminiscent of raw sewage does have a strange quality to it that compels one to eat more. There must be some sort of psychoactive effect to this odiferous, chemical cocktail to make a person want to keep taking bites between the retches. But even more vomit-inducing than the off taste is the overpower nature of the stench. More than anything, this foul odor permeates and saturates the experience, prompting the consumer to plug their nose when venturing to take a bite.

Strictly speaking in terms of nutrition, durian doesn't live up to its moniker. It's very high in sugar but does a decent amount of Vitamin C, some Potassium, and fats. I could understand all the hype if durian was some sort of nigh-incredible superfood, the maggot-like sections packed with vitamins and minerals but, strangely enough, all of the allure seems to be based on the vile flavor.

There's a wide variety of confections and sweets in southeast Asia in which durian is a primary constituent. Now, I've had those Harry Potter jelly beans that taste like vomit and other disgusting substances but they clearly a novelty. I couldn't even imagine taking a mere sip of a durian milkshake no matter how dilute the fetid, sewer flavor.

Rather than eating durian which, with its ghastly smell and odd flavor, I think nature is trying to dissuade us from doing, I think durian should instead be used as a weapon of war.

Exhibit A: its uncanny resemblance to a mace. The sheer bulk of this fruit with its array of sharp thorns make it a deadly armament, capable of crushing skulls.

Exhibit B: the smell. Anyone nimble enough to escape your wild swings with soon be overcome by the stench. And really, why damage the environment with manufacturing byproducts and waste all of that metal and plastic in the creation and use of tear gas canisters when you could just lob a durian into a crowd. They're even a renewable resource.

I'm planting my tree now so I'll prepared when the economy dissolves further and bands of former-middle-class marauders begin wandering the streets. What are you going to do when you run out of bullets? I'll be there with my formidable durian arsenal, crushing skulls and, in times of great desperation, grabbing mouthfuls of rotten mango omelette.

Longan

Longan translates phonetically to "dragon eyes" in Cantonese and Vietnamese and "cat eyes" in a few other Southeast Asian languages. At first one might think this is due to the rough, mottled exterior of this little fruit but the secret to the name lies within. Rarely seen within the US, I was fortunate enough to encounter these strange little fruits on a recent visit to a local flea market where there are a few great stalls featuring some exotic Asian produce.

A member of the Sapindaceae family of trees, longans are relatives of lychees and rambutans. They are grown in the same Southeast Asian lands as their cousins but their origins have been traced to the southern region of China, a bit further north than the fertile tropical breeding grounds of their family members.

The longan doesn't appear edible at first glance. It isn't until you squeeze these tough looking orbs that you start to suspect there might be some viable fruit inside. Peeling back the skin is much like peeling a lychee or a hard-boiled egg. The rind is thick but pliable and breaks off to reveal the dragon's eye inside. The flesh is veined and translucent with a dark seed embedded in its center, giving the appearance of an eyeball, hence the name.

The taste of the translucent longan flesh is a little strange. Whereas the flavors of the lychee and rambutan are wholly sweet and floral, there's a mild tang in the longan. One could aptly describe it as being like a lychee with a hint of sweet onion. Not bad, but this odd note dampened my enthusiasm about finishing the rest of the bunch.

There are some bumpier varieties but mine was essentially smooth with some slight texturing. The minor pickled-onion flavor puts me off wanting to make them a regular part of my repertoire but since my beloved rambutans and lychees are far more expensive, I might be forced to pick up some more of these little snack sized fruits on my next trip to the market.

Then again, if I can get one of these to produce a fruit-bearing tree in a reasonable amount of time, I might just have to get used to the idea of onion flavored fruit.

Passion Fruit

One day I was walking the dog with the wife and happened upon a strange green fruit growing on a vine. "Hmmm... what's this? I wonder if I can eat it," I remarked but was summarily warned that I would not be transported to the hospital in the event of any poisoning. The orb was about the size of a racquetball ball and had the same flexible, hollow feel. This oddity puzzled me for weeks every time I saw it. What on Earth could it be?

Here's the kicker: I had seen flowers on that same vine before. I knew was these flowers were called yet, in an extreme and prolonged case of idiocy, my feeble mind refused to make the connection. What was this flower, you ask? The passion flower:

And the fruit, of course, was a passion fruit. Get your iodine lest you end up a cretin like me.

Ever present as a flavoring in fruit drinks, candies, and confections, I was slightly puzzled to find that many people I asked had never eaten a passion fruit. Strange, since they are actually grown commercially (and wildly) in Florida, where I currently reside. When I lived in Australia, another big producer, they were in all grocers. But I can't remember having seen them in any local supermarkets for years and only just recently found a few on the Island of Misfit Produce at Whole Foods.

There are two main varieties of passion fruit. The purple passion fruit is the most commonly known and has the characteristic wrinkly purple skin. It only grows to about the size of a lemon whereas its cousin, the yellow passion fruit, can grow to the size of a grapefruit. Both varieties have a tough, outer rind that contains a clutch of seeds coated with a gelatinous, yellow/orange substance. The skin of mine was actually a mottled white/purple, something I had not seen before and I can only make the logical assumption that it is a cultivar of the purple variety. Regardless, just as our mothers told us, it's what's inside that matters.

Juices containing passion fruit really do the fresh fruit no justice. The aroma is sublimely sweet and floral with hints of mango. One whiff and you'll be incapable of resisting the temptation of the sweet flesh. The flavor is far more incredible than I had remembered; delectably rich and sweet but with a refreshing quality that can't be found in equally rich foods. Like a pomegranate, you scoop the innards out and consume both flesh and seed. Unlike a pomegranate, the seeds contribute favorably to the flavor, adding a slight dash of bitterness and sourness to counteract the intense sweetness of the flesh.

Unfortunately, there's a meager amount of edible matter and, at a dollar or more a pop, there are economic deterrents from just grabbing another for a repeat experience. Still, this salacious fruit is one you can quite happily take your time to savor.

Sour Orange

This ugly little orange was sitting with other strange and exotic fruits in the produce section of Whole Foods so I was lead to believe that there had to be something particularly special about it. While not as grotesque as the ugli fruits sitting nearby, these little creatures are noticeably rougher than their navel orange brethren; marred with black spots and streaks like a mini orange model of the moon. They're also incredibly dense. If I'd been attacked in the parking lot on the way back to my car then I could probably have used this rock-like fruit to fight off my would-be-assailant.

Being a native of Vietnam, I have a sneaking suspicion that the sour orange, also known as bitter orange, bigarade orange, or Seville orange, was developed as a weapon of war. Currently, however, it is used for its essential oil in perfumes and flavorings (one variety, bergamot, is used in the delectable Earl Grey tea) or as an ingredient in food items such as marmalade. More recently it has replaced the now-illegal ephedra as a dietary supplement because of its stimulant and appetite suppressing qualities. I can't find much information about the nutritional profile but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that it has high levels of vitamin C.

In peeling the bitter orange, one can certainly begin to understand the value of the oil as a perfume or flavoring. The aroma is incredibly strong and distinct. At the same time, it is rather harsh and irritating to the skin, eyes, and passage ways; the sour orange does not like to be peeled and its tough exterior makes it an arduous task. Within the thick rind are very pulpy segments with a texture much like that of those found in grapefruit. In fact, much about the sour orange is similar to the grapefruit; particularly its texture, astringency, and taste. The sour orange, however, still has that distinctive "orange" scent and flavor that is responsible for its oil's popularity.

The rind must be where most of the value is contained as the innards indeed smell sour, but more along the lines of sour as in rotten. The pulpy skin around the juicy flesh is incredibly bitter and not very nice at all. After eating two pieces I couldn't stand the taste of the skin any longer and resorted instead to chewing the pieces until I'd extracted all of the juice and then promptly spat the pulp out. The juice itself was pleasant but overbearing at times. If I were to buy another one of these then I would definitely forgo the hassle of peeling and sectioning. Instead I'd just slice it in twain, juice the two halves, and sip slowly. Being so sour, it's probably something that can't be enjoyed in isolation all too often but would work quite well as an ingredient in meals or cocktails.

While the experience of peeling and eating the sour orange was rather unpleasant in and of itself (the tender flesh under my fingernails burned for the rest of the day), I've quite enjoyed learning about them. Now I shall run to the store and pick up some Earl Grey tea because I've got a craving for the sour, citrus flavor.

Fried Green Tomatoes / Yellow Tomatoes

Tomatoes are my favorite fruit. But they're a vegetable, you say. Fruits are sweet and are thus appropriately artificially approximated as flavors for candy. Even the United States Supreme Court ruled in 1893 that tomatoes are to be labeled, and therefore taxed, as vegetables. But the term vegetable is not scientific and, biologically, a fruit is defined as the ripened ovary of a flowering plant, the simple defining characteristic being the seeds. But regardless of what you want to call it, I think the tomato is grand.

One oddity involving tomatoes that I had long been interested in sampling was the fried green variety. Most fruits are strictly off limits for consumption prior to ripening due to the tough texture, bitter flavor, and occasional toxicity. Cooking an unripe fruit can take care of the hard texture and alter the flavor to a more palatable form. One such treatment is the Southern favorite, fried green tomatoes.

Being of Australian origin and British descent, when I think "fried tomato" I think of a few naked slices of tomato fried up in sausage grease, part of a traditional English breakfast. Suffice to say, I was a little confused when I received my order of fried green tomatoes at Savannah's wonderful Moon River Brewery (highly recommended if you're in the area) and quickly realized how obviously mistaken I had been to think they wouldn't be breaded. The breading, in my opinion, masks the full flavor of the green tomato so I ripped the outer covering from one of the bunch to fully appreciate the taste. With the breading they tasted much like other fried fruits and veggies like fried okra and even onion rings. Naked, however, the flavor was more distinctly "tomato" yet with some of the pungency one finds in the vegetation of the plant.

Not being a fan of battered and fried foods, I think I'll steer clear of these in the future but I might experiment with my own pan-fried green tomatoes to see how they compare.

While the green tomato is simply an unripe red tomato, over the past few years we have seen an increase in the number of tomato cultivars being offered by supermarkets which include some odd colored and strangely shaped varieties. Recently I picked up a yellow tomato thinking that the extraordinarily high price tag would correlate to an extraordinarily wonderful tomato.

Note the difference between the two tomatoes above. One is of a typical red tomato hue, the other inhabits a more orange/yellow position in the spectrum. But if you're thinking that's the only difference between the two, well then, you're just plain right. The yellow cultivar was really no different from a red of comparable quality. There may have been a slight difference in certain components of the flavor but these were only very subtle.

Here's my advice for anyone who loves tomatoes as much as I do: grow your own. I have never bought a tomato from the store that has been anywhere near as amazing in odor, flavor, and texture as those I've pulled off the plant myself. Even when they're scabbed and mottled, the amazing succulence and intense flavor put any of the store bought varieties to shame... yes, even those from high-end, over-priced organic markets. They're relatively easy to grow and incredibly rewarding. Just watch out for the caterpillars.....................

Cherimoya

"The most delicious fruit known to men," proclaimed Mark Twain in The Sacramento Daily Union on October 25, 1866. While he may be right, the cherimoya is certainly one of the ugliest too. I have a sneaking suspicion that these things are actually the eggs of the reptilian humanoids purported by small bands of delusional neanderthals to be in control of the world's governments and financial systems. If my theory is correct then I, for one, welcome our delicious reptilian overlords.

The official story our government wants us to believe is that cherimoyas are fruits native to the Andean-highland valleys of Ecuador and Peru and currently produced throughout many temperate regions throughout the world. The trees don't like frost and snow but thrive in cooler temperatures, leading to the indigenous peoples of the Andes to claim that, "while the cherimoya cannot stand snow, it does like to see it in the distance."

The skin of a cherimoya is soft and smooth, not unlike that of a reptile, and the sweet perfume of the flesh comes through slightly, entirely unlike that of a reptile. Cutting the fruit open reveals a creamy white interior and some very large brown seeds, an appearance that could partly explain why it is also commonly called a custard apple. The flesh is actually segmented into velvety pods that each contain a single seed and can be peeled out intact.

Be careful not to eat neither seed nor skin. The seeds are poisonous if cracked and can be crushed up for use as an insecticide. Even better, eating the skin can result in paralysis for a period of 4 to 5 hours. Learning of this only made me want to try it but I didn't want to chance having my diaphragm or heart paralyzed. Death by cherimoya may be exotic but definitely not too glamorous.

Mr. Twain has a fairly solid case for proclaiming the cherimoya the most delicious of fruits. The closest comparison I can draw to the flavor is a well made, not-too-sweet, non-alcoholic piña colada but really this does no justice to the complexities and smoothness of the flavor. The sweetness teeters on the safe side of being overbearing so that no matter how many pieces of velvety flesh you eat the taste does not become tiresome. There are hints of banana, pineapple, feijoa, and dragon fruit. The texture, sweetness, and flavors also bear a striking resemblance to bubblegum.

The major drawbacks to the cherimoya are its relative rareness, small window of availability, and high price. Five bucks a pound was what they were going for at my local store and my insane cheapness prevented me from buying more than my initial sample. But I can imagine that the passage of time until next season will compound my craving and leave me compelled to indulge in this succulent fruit once more.

Red Bananas

I really like bananas. Currently, due to the intersection of my love of their flavor and my constant hunger with their nutritional value, their bulk, and their low cost, I am consuming three bananas a day. Once I heard a rumor that eating more than two bananas a day could lead to an early death due to the high levels of potassium. Actually, I think I read it in a book or saw it in a movie but a quick search on the Google results in many pages in support of this idea that bananas are going to kill me.

I feel fine.

Regardless of whether or not bananas are going to cause me any sufficient damage, the sad fact is that the trees bearing these wonderful packages of plant matter are currently under threat from the horrid Fusarium oxysporum/Panama disease/Agent Green, a fungus that wiped out the Gros Michel cultivar of banana, predecessor to the current most popular variety, the Cavendish. The bananas you buy at the store are all the product of essentially the same organism. You may have noticed that the bananas you buy have no seeds as a wild specimen would have. This is because all Cavendish banana plants are reproduced by removing and planting offshoots from the main plant. Banana plantations are armies of clones producing sterile organs harvested for our consumption. As a result of this homogeneity, what ails one banana tree can lead to the destruction of them all and Fusarium oxysporum, to which Cavendish bananas had earlier been resistant to, seems poised to obliterate many of the commercial banana crops around the world.

So what do we do? Experimenting with the commercial viability of other banana cultivars is one good tactic and it may not be long before we start to see red bananas appearing in many of the major super markets. They're already infiltrating the smaller health food stores which is where I picked up my first sample.

Here's one major problem with introducing new bananas or different pigments: when are they ripe? The green, yellow, black phases we use to make judgement calls regarding the state of a banana don't work when the banana is red. Instead you have a red/pink, red/purple, black progression and the distinction between the under-ripe and ripe phases can be confusing.

So I bought my first red banana and rushed home, excited, for my first sampling. I took some pictures, did a bit of reading, and decided that it should be good to consume. I peeled back the skin a bit which showed some resistance. "It's just a different type of banana," I said to myself and then sunk my teeth into the flesh. Immediately all of the moisture was sucked out of my mouth and into the banana shaped block of wood. Not ripe, nowhere near it. Leaving it for a few days didn't rectify the problem and, heartbroken, I was forced to abandon the banana to the trash can.

Fast forward to a market in rural Pisac, Peru. We'd been told to be wary of eating local fruit unless you could peel it yourself. Even then, be careful we were warned. So I was wandering around, observing the wares and dodging chunks of flesh and bone flying forth from the butcher stalls, when I saw them: bananas rojas! My health store midget cost me about a dollar in the US; I scored this whopper for a mere 15 cents and I didn't even think to haggle.

The scent of the red banana is a bit more "tropical" than what we're used to with our yellow Cavendish cultivar. There is a hint of the acidity of citrus in the aroma and a floral component. The taste and texture are noticeably different but not drastic enough to jeopardize its commercial viability. The hint of citrus is present in the flavor whilst the typical "banana flavor" is less pungent but bold nonetheless. The texture is fluffier, a bit velvety, and a little drier which results in a slightly less filling snack. I've also noticed that they tend to be shorter than the Cavendish but are often a bit fatter when at full size.

I've had subsequent success with buying from the health food store so just be sure to pick the darker, more purple banana if you're planning to give one a try or you'll get a mouthful of wood. While I would surely lament the passing of the yellow Cavendish banana if it ever came to a tragic end, I would be just as happy with the red banana and would love to see them both sold side-by-side in major supermarkets.

Dragon Fruit

The name is understandable. One could easily imagine the spawn of some fire-breathing beast to claw its way out of this scaly, crimson egg. But what lies beneath the skin is far less frightening yet still rather surprising.

The three common varieties of dragon fruit, also called pitayas, comes from cactuses of the genus Hylocereus. I had the most common type, Hylocereus undatus, the red pitaya. Its striking resemblance to the prickly pear made me think this at first but the soft, sensitive skin and succulent innards caused me to doubt my initial impression. The full-sized fruit is about as big as a mango and has a similar yet less weighty feel (because it lacks a large pit in the middle).

Slicing open the dragon fruit exposes its shocking secret. Beneath the scaly red skin is a pure white flesh full of tiny black seeds. The aroma is flowery and sweet, like a fresh flower on a dewy morning. The flesh looks like a bleached watermelon and, apart from the crunchy little seeds, has a very similar texture.

Despite the grand buildup caused by the odd look and pleasant aroma, the initial taste is confusingly underwhelming.

"This doesn't taste like anything."

Tasteless but not bland, it's hard to describe. However, the more bites you take, the more prevalent the subtle flavors become. Creamy, floral, sweet, and nectar-like; perhaps the mildness of the flavor is a good thing as a bolder expression of these characteristics could be overwhelming. If it weren't for the price, I could definitely make a regular snack out of this fruit. With any luck the few seeds I planted will sprout (like my prickly pear seeds did).

A very pleasant experience indeed. The dragon fruit isn't only a strange sight to behold but also a subtly delicious treat. Look for them in the refrigerated part of the produce section in your local supermarket.

Crenshaw Melon

Although I promised never to include something here again based on its enormity but I swear it wasn't the size that drew me to the crenshaw. Looking more like a gourd than a melon, I must admit that I had high hopes for this mass of ugliness.

The crenshaw (also spelled cranshaw) is cultivar of the Muskmelon species, like the honeydew but the fruit does not look much like its sibling. Yellow and with the appearance of shriveled skin, I was expecting something a bit more musky but, much to my dismay, the pale orange flesh tasted more like a bland cantaloupe. This is not to imply that it was bad in anyway, simply not as exotic and flavorful as I had expected.

I think I've learned my lesson with melons. However, if there are any particularly strange and delicious varieties out there, please throw one my way... just not too hard.

Aprium

Apriums are recently developed hybrids of, as the name may suggest, apricots and plums. Those fearful of "frankenfoods" and the genetic engineering/maniuplation of plants to advance, enhance, or enrich the viability and variability of consumer produce ought stay away as this is an entirely "unnatural" being. I fear not the sweet nectar of science.

Apricots and plums are members of the genus Prunus which also includes peaches, cherries, and almonds, hence the physical similarities between the fruits and pits and the potential for hybridization.

The fruit appears to be a larger than normal apricot with a deeper orange hue. This confuses the employees at your local supermarket where, although the fruit came from a basket marked aprium, the absence of an entry in the store's produce database leads them to run around frantically until they proclaim, unanimously, that the thing is an apricot.

"It's actually an aprium."

"Yeah, that's the same thing as an apricot."

Taxonomy and facts aside, the aprium indeed looks and smells a lot like an apricot. Dig in and you'll find the flesh combines the distinctive flavor of the apricot with the incredible sweetness and texture of the plum. The skin almost seems unsuited for containing the succulence of the ripe flesh inside and appears to bruise easily but without any significant impact on the taste.

Hybrids are interesting but this isn't one I'd go out of my way to buy again. With apricots costing about the same and plums much cheaper, I think I'll just stick with the parents. I do, however, appreciate the science and novelty. What will they think of next? I'm hoping for a cross between an orange and a banana... an orana. Just think of the possibilities... well, the one possibility: Orana Tang. I'd drink to that.

Persimmon

Persimmons always look like they're rotting during their short annual stay in the produce section. This probably has a lot to do with the small window of edibility during its transition from wood to mush.

The persimmon tree is part of the ebony family and is not closely related to any other commonly found fruits despite appearing to be an odd tomato/pumpkin hybrid. The skin is thicker than a tomato's and the fruit firmer when at the ripe stage but there is a similar quality to the appearance and texture of the flesh.

There is a sweet, festive, and perfumed quality to the persimmon's aroma which reminds me of autumnal celebrations and a mingling of vanilla and pumpkin scented candles. The mouthfeel is rather unique and can be quite unpleasant if the fruit isn't ripe enough. The name persimmon is said to be an adaptation from a Powhatan word (an Algonquin language) meaning "dry fruit" and this is certainly due to the paradoxically moist yet desiccating nature of the flesh. There is also a feeling of density not found in many other fruits in both the tactile and gustatory senses. The flavor is rich and sweet yet, like a well made dessert, still palatable and not overwhelmingly sugared. Like the scent, there are definite notes of vanilla and spiced pumpkin with hints of magnolia. It's hard to describe the unique flavor but imagine a tree engineered to bear fruit containing sweet potato pie filling.

Despite the sometimes hefty price tag, persimmons are a nice little all-natural dessert to treat yourself to.

Prickly Pear

So I knew that there are some edible cactuses, one of which can provide quite an interesting experience, but I was unaware that there were varieties of cacti that bore fruit.

When I saw the prickly pear, labeled cactus pear, I thought it was just some exotic fruit that, in the manner of some of my recent strange snacks, simply bore resemblance to the plant it was named after. Imagine my shock when I discovered that the prickly pear actually comes from a rather large cactus from the genus Opuntia. This cactus, the Indian Fig Opuntia, is actually quite common across the West and Southwestern regions of the US and much of Mexico.

I chose to eat my prickly pear but it can also be used to make dyes, intoxicants, and for medicinal purposes. Immediately upon slicing the fruit open the usage as a dye becomes evident as the innards are suffuse with a rich maroon liquid much like that fond in beets. The flesh is mildly sweet and has the texture of a grainier canned beet but the flavor more closely resembles a rich watermelon with notes of raspberry. My variety was not seedless so eating it involved taking a spoonful, pushing the flesh through the gaps of my teeth, and spitting out the hordes of ball bearings contained within each bite. Despite the tedious manner of consumption, I quite enjoyed the flavor. Not the cheapest of fruits but more affordable than the typical exotic oddity. Hopefully at least one of these hundred seeds will sprout and I'll get to repeat the experience in about ten years.

Kumquat

The tiny kumquat is the fruit which everybody has heard of but nobody has seen or eaten. The simultaneously exotic and humorous sounding name has given it an almost celebrity level status in the realm of strange food-stuffs in literature, radio, and television but it is nowhere to be seen in local stores and markets.

Within the past few years, after a lifetime of hearing the name, I learned that the kumquat is a small citrus relative so, somewhat accurately, I pictured an orange but on a miniature scale. Thinking more along the lines of a tangerine, I was surprised upon encountering the diminutive kumquat looking like a mad scientist's hybridization of an orange and a grape.

I was afforded the great privilege of pulling one of these delicacies straight from the tree and devouring it on the spot. Unlike its cousins, the kumquat is meant to be eaten whole, skin and all. The skin of most citrus fruits smells incredible and this relative is no exception but, unlike citrus peel, the taste is not incredibly bitter and unpalatable. Perhaps its because the skin is so thin that the bitterness is masked but that lovely scent of citrus peel translates into an incredible tangy, orange-like taste. Combine that with the sweet and sour flesh inside and you have a huge taste sensation in a tiny package. Honestly, this is one of the most fantastic fruits I have ever tasted, so many flavors and so small... nature's perfect candy.

As luck would have it, we found a seed in one of the kumquats we picked so I'm currently trying to grow myself a tree. Maybe in five years or so I'll be able to again savor the sublime flavor of the kumquat.

Feijoa

The feijoa is a little fruit whose origins are in South America but can be found growing in the Southeastern United States and New Zealand. Despite its tiny size, the feijoa carries a big price tag and if you were to go by smell alone, it would hardly seem worth it. The scent gives a bitter impression and has characteristics notes of unripe or inedible fruits.

However, if you ignore the warning signs of the outer scent and slice it open (in looking at pictures online, slicing it perpendicular to the long side gives a more photogenic view of the innards compared to my lengthwise cut) the aroma becomes more appetizing and noticeably tart. The tartness hits hard upon the initial taste and it like sucking on pure citric acid. The texture is incredibly gritty but not unpalatable and this seems to naturally pair with the tart quality.

Beyond the initial taste and texture shock, the feijoa has a very pleasant flavor which I can't compare to anything else. It is sometimes called a pineapple guava but tastes nothing like either fruit but resembles a miniature version of the latter.

While I really enjoyed devouring this little fruit, the price and rarity means that there's not much chance of me making this a regular part of my diet unless, of course, I grew my own... and I just may.