Pawpaw

by Andrew Moore

  Those initial questions I had about pawpaws, both before and after my trip—what do they taste like, where do they grow, how did they get here, and why have I never heard of them—are more or less the same for anyone who’s first introduced to the fruit. Partly because of this mystique, they’ve engendered a great passion in some people, including myself, who’ve become enamored, obsessed even, with pawpaws—many of whom I would later meet at festivals, farms, and gardens throughout the Midwest, South, and mid-Atlantic.

  “It is said that no habit gets a stronger hold on a man than the pawpaw habit,” wrote one garden magazine in the 1920s.1 But at the beginning of my journey, I had no idea that such aficionados existed, and besides that one Ohio patch, I had no idea where pawpaws grew. After my earliest bit of cursory research, I was thrilled to learn that my adopted home of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, rested at the edge of the pawpaw’s native range. I’d ramble up hillsides, into roadside woodlots, searching. When I did chance upon a patch of fruit, whether on the banks of the Youghiogheny or along city streets, I shared them with friends, extolling their many virtues, and made pawpaw ice cream, pawpaw smoothies, pawpaw cream pies, and pawpaw bread. As a gardener, I saved seeds and even began to grow my own trees in five-gallon buckets. When the trees sprouted I gave them to friends, to community gardens, and eventually planted a pair in my own small yard. I knew it could take up to eight years before they would produce fruit, but that was okay. I was prepared to put in the time. I couldn’t get enough.

  In my quest to find more trees and more fruit, and to learn as much as I could about them, I began to travel farther and farther from home. And I started to realize that while the culture at large had forgotten about this unique fruit’s existence, I was meeting people who remembered eating pawpaws—and many who still did—more often than I would have thought. After I learned to identify them, the trees that had once been so elusive seemed to be everywhere I went. In the following pages I offer a history of pawpaws, chronicle the efforts of growers and plant breeders to increase their popularity and marketability, and recount my travels in the American Pawpaw Belt. And if you’ve never tasted one before, I hope this book inspires you to find your nearest pawpaw patch.

  PART I

  PAWPAWS IN HISTORY

  — CHAPTER ONE —

  WHAT’S A PAWPAW?

  Throughout the years it’s gone by a lot of names—frost banana, Indiana banana, fetid-bush, bandango, custard apple, prairie banana, poor man’s banana—but most of the time it’s just been called pawpaw. At first glance, both the fruit and the tree seem out of place in North America. A cluster of young pawpaws hanging from its branch resembles a miniature hand of bananas. And those clusters are tucked behind the tree’s lush foliage, shaded by leaves often a foot in length, larger and broader than those of avocado or mango. Wild pawpaws often appear kidney-shaped, two to six inches long, and one to three inches wide; they typically weigh from just a few ounces to half a pound. But under cultivation—and yes, there are pawpaw breeders and growers—fruits that weigh more than a pound and a half are not uncommon.

  American landscapes are filled with berries, plums, persimmons, grapes, and all sorts of other edible fruits. But there is no native fruit as large as pawpaw. To walk into a wild grove is unlike any other American foraging experience. Rock-hard when underripe, the pawpaw eventually turns as delicate and fragile as a raspberry, and only at this stage of extreme vulnerability is it ready to be picked. If unpicked by human hands, ripe fruit will fall to the ground (hence the chorus of the American folk song: “Picking up pawpaws / Put ’em in a basket / Way down yonder in the pawpaw patch”) and can then be eaten. Or, if you don’t want to wait for them to fall on their own accord, a shake of the tree’s trunk will release any fruits that are ready. But you must be gentle: Any unripe fruits shaken down too early will fail to ripen at all. A prematurely picked pawpaw will turn black and rot, yet never sweeten to its potential.

  In the Deep South, pawpaws usually begin to ripen in late July or early August; in the mid-Atlantic and Ohio River Valley, early September; and in the fruit’s northernmost range, with fruit ripening in mid- to late September, pawpaws can be picked as late as the middle of October. Each tree produces ripe fruit for about thirty days. But, as with everything else in nature, the timetables depend on fluctuations in weather. I’ve begun to associate pawpaw with goldenrod: When the fields are yellow with the latter’s bloom, it’s time to check the pawpaw patch.

  Pawpaws vary greatly from tree to tree, but even fruit from a single tree will differ in taste considerably depending on its ripeness, the amount of sunlight it receives, and a host of other factors. There is a stage in the ripe fruit’s development when its flavor is perfect, but this, of course, is subjective. Regardless, after it’s picked, the pawpaw’s skin will begin to blacken in just three days, and its sweetness will intensify until caramel is the overwhelming flavor and scent. Alabamian Dale Brooks once told me you can judge a good pawpaw the same way you judge a Cajun gumbo. “If after you eat it and a minute later you start to talk and your lips stick together—that’s a good one.”

  Many old-timers who grew up with the fruit as children would never eat a “green” pawpaw. “If you let them fall off, lay them up on the windowsill, and let them get real black—oh man, they’re real good!” For them, the only ripe pawpaw is purple-black, shriveled, and incredibly sweet. “My favorite pawpaw is one that’s black and starting to ferment just a little bit,” another man told me in eastern Kentucky. “It tastes like wine, pawpaw wine.” Others, however, prefer a pawpaw just a couple of days after it’s picked, when the flesh is still firm and bright, its flavor sweet and mild.

  The pawpaw’s flavor is most often described as a cross between banana and mango, hence “bandango.” But again, they vary greatly. Wynn Dinnsen, a pawpaw grower in Pittsboro, North Carolina, keeps a log describing the fruits of more than two hundred unique trees he has raised from seed, including notes on their weight, seed-to-pulp ratio, and flavor. In the pages of his notebook, slightly stained from pawpaw pulp, he has recorded flavors ranging from melon and pineapple to cotton candy and anise. A “Hoosier lad” once told author Euell Gibbons, “They taste like mixed bananers and pears, and feel like sweet pertaters in your mouth.”1 Jerry Dedon, a grower in Louisiana, says there are just two basic flavor types: banana or mango. Still others will state plainly, “Pawpaw tastes like pawpaw.”

  Pawpaws are a river fruit. They grow under many conditions and in many climates, but they’re most abundant and reliably found growing in the deep alluvial soil of American bottomlands, along creeks, streams, and great rivers from the mighty Mississippi to the Wabash, Susquehanna, Missouri, and Potomac. In the wild, pawpaw trees grow in the understory, beneath the forest sentinels, the towering oaks, hickories, tulip poplars, and black walnuts. In such company, trees can grow to between fifteen and thirty feet tall, but are usually much shorter. The pawpaw is content, has thrived as such for millennia, in the shadows of dark hollers and thick woods. It has never needed to stand out. And so each year as the fruit ripens, most Americans are unaware of the edible abundance in the nearby woods, and the pawpaws fall to become a mash of green and orange, a syrupy sweetness amongst the leaves and twigs, berries and nuts, returning once again to the soil.

  The wild pawpaw is also a reluctant fruit tree. Because of its tendency to sucker—to send up sprouts or runners from its roots—the pawpaw often forms colonies, or dense patches of trees. And because it is able to multiply quite successfully in this way, the production of seed-laden fruit is only a secondary measure for ensuring survival. As a result, wild patches of pawpaw often bear little to no fruit at all. That first patch I stumbled into, with its intoxicating abundance, was not typical. There may be good years when pawpaw patches are loaded with fruit, both on the ground and in the trees, but just as often there is no fruit to be found. There are a few reasons for this. When a single pawpaw tree has been highly successful at
sending up suckers, it has surrounded itself with clones; the DNA of every tree in that pawpaw grove will be identical. Typically, for fruit to set, a pawpaw tree needs to cross-pollinate with a tree that is genetically different. The more vigorously a wild pawpaw suckers, the less likely it is to find a successful partner for reproduction. But again, because of its ability to sucker, this reluctance to set fruit doesn’t stop the pawpaw from reproducing. In fact, due to its tenacity some foresters consider the tree a problem, a fierce competitor unwilling to share space in the understory. “I have been growing papaws for seventy-five years, not willingly, but because I could not help it,” a gardener once wrote. “It is claimed there is no way to kill a papaw except to transplant it and try to make it grow.”2 Indeed, I was told in Rock Cave, West Virginia, “Around here pawpaw used to grow like goldenrod—just everywhere, like a weed.”

  Second, pawpaws aren’t pollinated by bees. Rather, their maroon flowers are visited by carrion flies and beetles—the same insects attracted to decomposing animals and similarly colored and scented flowers. These pollinators are less efficient than bees, however, and their annual presence and performance are highly variable.

  Perhaps they’re not as picturesque as the honeybees and bumblebees of other orchards, but the pawpaw does have its own unique love affair with insects. Its leaves are the only larval host for caterpillars of the zebra swallowtail, Protographium marcellus. Without pawpaws this large, black-and-white-striped butterfly would not exist.

  Each spring pawpaw flowers appear in the forest like bouquets of miniature roses. The small flowers—whose color is thought to approximate flesh, at least to pollinators—are perfect, meaning they have both male and female reproductive units. Because these flowers are pollinated by carrion flies and beetles, some growers have taken to hanging such pungent baits as roadkill and chicken skins in their pawpaw trees. Corwin Davis, the late Michigan plantsman who spent more than thirty years working with pawpaws, reported that placing dead animals in and under in his trees at blossom time worked quite well. “The only objection is your neighbors might not enjoy the idea very much,” he wrote.3 Others have used manure, strategically placed trash cans, and oyster shells; still others, having no need, do nothing at all.

  Finally, as an understory tree, pawpaws receive less light than those in the forest canopy. Despite this being the tree’s natural niche in the ecosystem, the conditions are not optimal for fruit: The less light a pawpaw receives the less fruit it produces. In recent years, growers have taken to planting pawpaws in full sun, which has resulted in more and larger fruit.

  Although they can seem weirdly out of place when first stumbled upon—as they did to me—pawpaws have been in North America for hundreds of thousands of years, long before any humans arrived. According to one theory, a group of Annonaceous trees evolving near the border of present-day United States and Mexico likely included an early ancestor of Asimina triloba, our common pawpaw.4 Since then, pawpaws have survived, or more precisely evolved, along with the advances and retreats of at least two glacial coverings of the continent. When one ice sheet receded around 130,000 years ago, the tree marched slowly northward, aided in its dispersal by the epoch’s megafauna. Other Annonaceae either failed to make the trip or perished in the colder weather, while through some genetic disposition or mutation, the proto–Asimina triloba did not. When the most recent ice sheet advanced eighty-five thousand years ago, the ancient Asimina population was pushed south again to Mexico, and east, to present-day Florida. Today there are at least seven other Asimina species, six of which are found only in Florida or southernmost Georgia (while A. parviflora, or dwarf pawpaw, occurs as far north as Virginia and west into Texas). “Through the ages [A. triloba] has wandered away like the proverbial prodigal son,” wrote the late horticulturalist George A. Zimmerman. “It has never gotten back into the fold.”5

  Perhaps owing to its equatorial heritage, the common pawpaw is one of the last eastern trees to leaf out in the spring. Some observers have posited that this trait might have been an evolutionary defense mechanism. Rather than let its foliage emerge early and risk a late frost, the pawpaw learned to stay longer in its dormant, protective state. April can be too cold for the pawpaw, so instead its leaf buds stay tightly wrapped late into spring.

  The pawpaw was a pioneer, the only tree in a vast family of more than two thousand species hardy enough for the temperate North. Even much of what we consider the sweltering, subtropical climate of Florida would not suit certain tropical Annonaceae for long, the occasional frost and freeze wilting their tender leaves and twigs. Not so the pawpaw, which though a member of the tropical custard apple family is strong enough to survive temperatures of twenty degrees Fahrenheit below zero on the banks of a frozen river, as well as near the ice-capped shores of the Great Lakes. Indeed, though it thrives in the Deep South, the pawpaw still requires winter and a certain number of hours of dormancy each year. Even much of peninsular Florida is too far south, too warm for this peculiar “tropical” fruit.

  Historically, pawpaws were one of the many fruits Native Americans culled from the forest. To the earliest European settlers, the fruit was both a curiosity and at times an important food source. At least two founding fathers were interested in pawpaws: Thomas Jefferson sent seeds to contacts in Europe, and George Washington planted them at Mount Vernon. Various species of pawpaw were described in Bartram’s Travels—written by the famed naturalist William Bartram—accompanied by sketches of leaves, flowers, and fruit. Decades earlier, William’s father, botanist John Bartram, was among the first Americans to send pawpaw seeds to Europe, in 1736. John James Audubon painted ripe, yellowing pawpaws and leaves in his portrait of the yellow-billed cuckoo as part of his seminal work, Birds of America. And pawpaws have been celebrated in poetic verse—from the works of James Whitcomb Riley and Kentuckian Jesse Stuart, to Walt Whitman. Pawpaws even kept the Lewis and Clark expedition fed—and contentedly so—during a stretch when their provisions were reduced to just one biscuit per man. One of their last journal entries reads, “Our party entirely out of provisions subsisting on poppaws . . . [but] the party appear perfectly contented and tell us they can live very well on the pappaws.”

  Towns named Paw Paw exist today in Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, West Virginia, Michigan, and Kansas. Then there’s Paw Paw Island, situated in the Mississippi River; Paw Paw Cove in the Chesapeake Bay; Paw Paw Cemetery in Ohio; and Pawpaw Plains, Tennessee; not to mention hundreds of Paw Paw Roads, Streets, and Avenues. Considering that each of these places was named for the locale’s abundance of pawpaws, it’s strange to think that the pawpaw went from something town founders couldn’t help but notice and marvel at, to being nearly forgotten. Considering this, I wondered, why didn’t the pawpaw become as American as apple pie?

  Of course, it’s not really true that no Americans today are familiar with the pawpaw. Naturalists, woodsmen, hunters, fishermen, and rare fruit and nut enthusiasts have remained acquainted with it throughout the years, though more so in some regions than in others. And in my conversations with older Americans, from West Virginia and southern Ohio to Arkansas and Missouri, I’ve been regaled with fond and colorful pawpaw pickin’ memories. One woman recalled that, as children, “starting about the middle of August, every kid was expected to walk the creek bottoms coming home from school and pick up pawpaws for dessert.” But at some point in the twentieth century—as many of the same old-timers have concurred—it appears that pawpaws disappeared from common knowledge.

  Although pawpaws were once widely sold at local markets, and regional newspapers even reported on the quality of the wild crop, the fruit was never brought into domestic cultivation. The most common explanation for this has been that pawpaws have too short a shelf life, and are too fragile to meet market demands. And with the rise of a global food system, the ease of shipping tropical fruits—bananas, pineapples, and more recently mangoes and avocados—had diminished the need for the poor man’s banana. B
ut as I began my research, I suspected that this wasn’t the whole story.

  In the few years since I first tasted a pawpaw, the fruit has experienced a modest comeback. Organic gardeners have become interested in it because, unlike so many fruit trees, pawpaws are virtually unaffected by pests and are easily grown organically. Native-plant and butterfly gardeners appreciate the tree both as a larval host and for its important niche in forest ecosystems. And because pawpaws are highly nutritious, they’re gaining the interest of health-conscious eaters. Scientists have even shown that certain compounds found within the tree—Annonaceous acetogenins—are among the most potent cancer-fighting substances yet discovered. Still, despite this history and this potential, those in the know remain a distinct minority.

  To get the whole story of the pawpaw’s importance—and later unimportance—to human cultures, I started at the beginning, traveling forty miles from Pittsburgh to the Meadowcroft Rockshelter. Meadowcroft is the earliest known site of human presence in North America, with the longest sequence of continuous use—at least sixteen thousand years. Among the fossils that have been discovered here are those of pawpaw seeds. When I visited several years ago, at least a dozen pawpaw trees were growing along Cross Creek, a tributary of the Ohio. I was humbled to see that pawpaws, trees that provided food for the continent’s earliest inhabitants nearly twenty thousand years ago, were still there, still flowering each spring, still producing fruit each fall. And yet despite such a long history, how many people today know they can eat those Cross Creek fruits, or the millions of others produced along similar creeks and streams throughout the Ohio Valley? Meadowcroft is a reminder that before we can talk about the pawpaw making a comeback, we need to look at where the story of pawpaws and people begins.