When I share that I’m from West Virginia, natural beauty is the only source of flattery my home receives from coastal elites. West Virginia is largely misunderstood, but it is distinctly renowned for its forests, rivers, mountaintops and valleys. But as a West Virginian, my contribution to the conversation often falls flat. I am shamefully disconnected from the land I call home. Wedged in a suburban valley, my core childhood memories are tied to manicured lawns and parking lots. I drove by mountain ranges with an apathetic awe akin to looking out of a plane window. Swimming in nearby rivers was discouraged due to industrial pollution, and hikes were only accessible by car. My sense of place was rooted in commerce instead of nature, leaving me to mourn a lost connection to my supposed home among the hills.
American suburban infrastructure isolates us in placeless communities. We are deprived of daily encounters with the living world in material and cultural practices. Humans are dependent on the success of the natural world to survive, yet we are blind to how it nurtures us. This distance allows for Western norms of endless extraction and exploitation to thrive. Robin Wall Kimmer, a renowned author, botanist, professor and member of the Potawatomi Nation, argues that proximal relationships with nature are essential for fostering values of conservation and respect for land. Engagement with nature through foraging, harvesting fruits and swimming in clean streams creates curiosity, gratitude and love for the living world. Recognizing natural resources as gifts demands reciprocity and responsibility that propels us to protect our environment.
Living in urban Washington, D.C., I have developed gratitude for the nature that is woven into the fabric of the city. Streets are densely lined with oak and maple trees that provide shade and house animals. The bloom of redbuds and trumpet creeper satiates our bees. Serviceberries sustain our birds. Rock Creek Park is an accessible retreat. In my quest to identify with my surroundings, I was thrilled to discover pawpaws: a fruit native to Appalachia that spans across the Mid-Atlantic and Midwest.
Pawpaws are the largest edible fruit trees native to North America. Thriving along banks of creeks and rivers, they are Appalachia’s best kept secret. Inside their tough green skin, cushioning large black seeds, the soft, custardy, yellow pulp tastes like a cross between mango and banana. Uniquely, pawpaws cannot be commodified due to their short shelf life. They must ripen fully on the tree and easily fall off of shaken branches to be safely consumed. Their green skin bruises easily, turning a brownish-black. Despite their bruises and finicky ripening, pawpaws deserve more recognition. They attract an eclectic fanbase and state festivals, but remain largely unknown by their neighbors.
This September, I sought to embrace these fruits with an enthusiasm that rivals the seasonal craze of pumpkins. I’ve created ice cream, crème brûlée and frozen quarts of puree for future experimentation. (Recipes are provided at the end!) Pawpaws are also my latest artistic muse: I painted an oil still life and adorned my nails with 3D fruits. Foraging is what I cherish most about this season. My local source of pawpaws, the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, allows for collection of up to a half gallon per day. Right off of the trail, pawpaw groves are vast and lush along the Potomac River, growing in clover-like clusters.
Pawpaws are a humble fruit but represent a complex and lost relationship to nature. Unfit for commercialization, they reside in the wild, offering a brief window of gifts that necessitate patience and care. Foraging has provided me a unique opportunity to celebrate my regional identity, eat seasonally, forge a stronger reciprocal relationship with nature and taste a piece of home.
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Pawpaw Custard
2 cups of heavy cream
1 cup of milk
Pinch of salt
¾ cups of sugar
5 egg yolks
1 tsp of vanilla extract
1 cup of pawpaw puree (chilled)
In a pot on the stove, heat up your heavy cream, milk and salt just until it steams. Meanwhile, combine egg yolks and sugar, and beat until light. When the cream is steaming, temper and combine with the egg mixture by adding cream in small spoonfuls, continuously stirring. Once combined, add vanilla. Refrigerate for several hours until cool. Stir in the pawpaw puree. Option to pass the custard through a mesh sieve for a smooth texture.
Pour the custard through an ice cream maker. Scoop at soft serve consistency, or store and freeze for a harder ice cream. Enjoy!
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Pawpaw Crème Brûlée
2 cups of heavy cream
Pinch of salt
5 egg yolks
¾ cups of sugar
1 cup of freshly mashed pawpaws
1 tsp of vanilla extract
Preheat the oven to 300ºF. In a pot on the stove, add heavy cream, mashed pawpaws and salt on low/medium heat until steaming. Meanwhile, mix sugar into the egg yolks until just combined (Incorporating too much air results in a foamy custard!). When the cream mixture is steaming, pour through a sieve to remove bulk pawpaws. Temper and combine with the egg mixture by adding cream in small spoonfuls, continuously stirring the eggs. Once combined, add vanilla. Option to pass through a mesh sieve again for a smooth texture. Pour in ramekins. Place the ramekins in a baking dish. Pour boiling water in the dish until the water reaches halfway up the ramekins. Bake for 20-50 minutes. The custard should jiggle slightly in the center when done. Cool in the fridge for several hours or overnight.
When ready to serve, sprinkle a thin layer of brown sugar onto the ramekins and torch until melted. Enjoy!
