The Citrus from Your Stocking
What to Make with Those Sugar Belles®
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DISH: Making the Case for Citrus
This past week, every time I walked outside, I sneezed several times in succession. No, I don’t have coronavirus. While we here in Miami are currently experiencing a temperature plunge long enough to make the iguanas fall from the trees in a cold-blooded stupor – but hopefully not frigid enough to kill my tomatillos and cucumbers, which are almost ready for picking – it’s really the first one of the season. And if the mango trees don’t get enough chill hours before late December, they’ll start blooming on the early side. I discovered upon moving into my former home, courtesy of 14 mango trees, that I’m allergic to mango pollen. I guarantee that within days, I’ll spot the first of those golden panicles spiking from the canopies.
In fact, it’s such a visible bloom that soon after it begins, you can’t miss all the mango trees from the roadways – one continuous, rolling mass of amber. That’s because mangoes are everywhere. Not just in backyards, but in schoolyards, courtyards of office buildings, parking lots of shopping centers, and on random, unclaimed spots. Most are left from commercial groves that were turned into suburban communities after the 1960s.
As much as I love this time of year, and adored my house that sat on the last remaining acre of a historic grove (we sold it around this time last year), it almost saddens me that mangoes have become the de rigeur dooryard crop. Not many of us think to plant citrus trees anymore, and even fewer of us realize why we have no orange, grapefruit, or lemon trees that have grown here for decades.
Some, though, recall very clearly when the Florida Department of Agriculture (FDA) chopped down all of our trees in an arrogant attempt to save commercial groves from citrus canker.
Citrus canker is an “introduced” disease that was discovered in the US in 1910 and finally found its way to Miami in 1995. It spread from its focal point of Miami International Airport outwards, leading researchers to conclude that humans had brought it in on the skins of foreign fruit. Their solution? Collect all citrus upon entry at the airports (see Poetry below) and quarantine (read: eradicate) at-risk trees, even those on personal property. Because it’s such an easily spread bacteria, quarantine meant any citrus within a certain distance of a tree that had been diagnosed.
In 2001, only a year after I moved into Mango House, the Canker Squad took from me a blood orange, a tangerine, a key lime, a Meyer lemon, and six grapefruit trees. All were perfectly healthy, with the exception of the absolutely ancient blood orange. In return, I received a gift card to Walmart (or some similar store) for $100 for the first tree, plus about half of that for every other tree.
Aside from enraging homeowners, the disappearance of South Florida’s heritage citrus had unintended consequences. The giant swallowtail butterfly lays its eggs on lemon and lime trees, and its caterpillars feed on the leaves and pupate on the branches. Without mature trees, the giant swallowtail started to disappear down here.
The canker program didn’t work. The FDA acknowledged, too late, that it failed. And then it was successfully sued by several counties (unfortunately, not Miami-Dade) for stealing personal property.
Today the commercial citrus industry faces a different, more severe problem: citrus greening, which kills entire groves (unlike canker, which simply makes the fruit unsightly), putting many farmers out of business. In response, those that have survived, like Hale Groves, are growing fruit on different rootstock and developing resistant varieties like Sugar Belles®.
A big mail-order company, Hale is where I get honeybells for my parents, sister, and sister-in-law every January. Honeybells are a cross between the Duncan grapefruit and the Dancy tangerine, giving them the size and heft of a grapefruit but the rich sweetness of an orange. They’re only available for a short, six-week window, from January to mid-February. (Yes, Virginia, there is a honeybell season, and it’s now.)
I’m a bit wary, given the range of diseases, of trying to grow my own honeybells, or any orange varieties, at the moment. But I did immediately put in a key lime and a Meyer lemon in the yard of my new home. Both are already loaded with fruit and with the supremely ugly orange dog caterpillars, which camouflage themselves by looking an awful lot like bird crap. But as is often the case, the homely little things turn into true beauty: the giant swallowtail butterfly, winging outside my window as I write.
JK
DISH: Recipes
Fingerling Potatoes with Orange-Prosecco Butter
This butter is super easy to make and works just as well with lobster or grilled oysters as it does with potatoes or corn. When I had a plethora of mangoes, I used to make it with mango puree, but it’s great with any kind of fruit and especially with oranges. I prefer it with the pulp, but if you like it thinner, feel free to strain it out.
2 pounds fingerling potatoes, washed and dried
4 tablespoons olive oil
Sea salt and white pepper to taste
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, divided
1 shallot, minced
1 cup Prosecco or other sparkling wine
1 cup freshly squeezed orange juice with pulp (substitute any citrus)
Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.
In a bowl, toss the potatoes with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Arrange on a baking sheet and roast for 30 minutes.
While the potatoes are cooking, in a saucepan, melt 2 tablespoons of the butter and saute the shallots until fragrant. Add salt and pepper to taste. Deglaze the pan with Prosecco. Add the orange juice and cook over a low flame, stirring occasionally to keep it from burning. When the liquid has reduced by half, add the rest of the butter and adjust the seasonings. Cook for an additional 5 minutes to blend the flavors.
Remove the potatoes from the oven and allow them to cool for 5 minutes. Transfer them to a bowl. Pour the Orange-Prosecco Butter over them and toss. Serve immediately.
Note: The Orange-Prosecco Butter can be made ahead and reheated.
JK
Lemon Curd
Lemon curd is the one pudding I like (and Jen, who also isn’t fond of wiggly desserts, concurs). It’s especially delish in a graham cracker crust painted with berry preserves (see photo below). It also always makes me think of my friend, colleague, and gifted chef Sandy Gluck from my Martha Stewart days. She was responsible for putting one of my favorite food digests, Everyday Food, on the map. Before winter set in, she and I went on a socially distanced pandemic walk, meeting at the venerable New York Public Library on Bryant Park, reminiscing about food including things like lemon curd, either cold from the fridge or warm from the pan when it’s just set.
This recipe from Epicurious is a good one. But a word to the wise: Try cooking it in a double boiler or set a simple metal bowl set over simmering water. Direct heat always seems to set the egg in the wrong direction, regardless of whisking frequently. At any rate, keep a sieve nearby to clean up your results if necessary.
BK
TILL: Sunshine in a Pot
For years I’ve suffered… from citrus envy. My sister has them. My West Coast friend grew citrus until she got sick of the “mess.” Really?! I was positive growing my own could cure the seasonal disorders caused by winter and its shoulder seasons. I wanted lemons, limes, something to bring that tart sunshine into my world. After leaving my birth state, the Garden State, where the USDA hardiness zones range from 6-7, I moved almost directly west, remaining a zone 6 gardener for the time being (and maybe forever). Nevertheless, I persist in trying to raise citrus like someone from the Sunshine State (zones 8-11), albeit without the citrus pestilence that has plagued its trees.
A container plant would have to do. This summer I acquired a lime that I intended to bring in once the weather turned. I did, recognizing that the yellowing and dropping leaves showed the tree’s distress. Even bare-limbed, though, it began to bud and bloom, so I repotted and fertilized it.
And then it died.
That’s when I called Byron Martin of Logee’s Plants for Home and Garden. Martin hails from hardy plant stock (forgive the pun, or not, after 9 months of pandemic practically anything is punny to me). Martin’s grandfather, Ernest Logee, started the company in 1892. His original interest in cut flowers turned to include the unusual and tropical. At the turn of the 20th century, he acquired a Ponderosa lemon that still produces five-pound fruit today. Logee’s is renowned at Martha Stewart where I first learned of it, and also in the mail-order plant world. In short, Byron Martin knows a thing or two about tropical plants, especially and including container-grown citrus.
Here is what he says: “Citrus makes really great container plants but they have issues.” Number one, they do not like being grown in plastic. Check that box. I’d left my lime in its transport pot, dropping it into another more decorative container with thoughts that it would be easier to bring inside. But Martin says citrus would rather live in terracotta for any and all future growing. Porous clay dries out instead of trapping water.
Watering itself is another challenge, so beware of it. I’d spent a little too much time loving my lime with H20 when its leaves looked a little dry in the hot summer sun. Wrong again. Says Martin, “My rule of thumb: Allow soil to become visually dry. Then give a drink.” And water thoroughly.
The root of many citrus problems are, literally, tangled in its roots. The roots are especially susceptible to rot. That can come from overwatering and/or a buying a plant that is poorly rooted to start. When purchasing, look for fleshy, growing tips moving to the edge of the pot. Skip brown, disintegrating roots. There, disease is already at work. The plants also like to be a little on the cozy side in their containers. Martin says don’t “overpot,” as in putting a small plant in an overly large container.
With this advice in mind, decide what kind of fruit and growing cycle to buy. The most frequent rewards come from lemons and limes with year-round repeats of flowering and fruiting. Oranges will provide a flush or two, plus that well-known perfume. Then find the brightest spot in the house – citrus obviously craves sunshine.
As for rotating containers inside and out, Martin warns that “friends” from outside could be hiding in soil or on the plant itself. Neem oil could help control an invasion but keep a careful eye.
In short, citrus, like every other plant in the world, depends on geography, soil, water, and common sense. Respect the first three and curate the last. Then citrus can thrive, inside or out, north or south.
And on that note, I’m off to buy a clay pot for my newly delivered blood orange, courtesy of the holiday gifting cycle.
Oh, and one other fun fact – the green limes we buy in the grocery? Martin says limes are ripe when they turn yellow. They’ve been picked green for so long, it’s what we’ve come to expect. Now you know when you can harvest them at home.
BK
DISH: Where to Find Us
This past month, Betsy has again been in the digital world teaching food, drink, and flower skills on her own and with @Alicestable, which collaborates with Harry & David. You can hire her for classes by contacting her through Dishtillery or by email at betsy@theportablegarden.com.
This past month, Jen’s article on Farmer’s Chop Suey (a.k.a. Jewish Chop Suey), which also explains a bit about why Jews love to eat Chinese food on Christmas Eve, was published in Allrecipes.com. Her poems were published in print in The Worcester Review and Tiferet Journal (as the winner of the 2020 Poetry Prize), and online in Pine Hills Review. Find more articles and poems at her website. You can hire her for writing by contacting her through Dishtillery or by email at kavetchnik@gmail.com.
DISH: Poetry
Back when citrus canker was one of the only things we had to worry about when crossing international borders, there were bins at certain gates of Miami International Airport. Any oranges or tangerines from out of the country were supposed to be dumped there before entering our citrus-heavy part of the world so that no one accidentally brought disease into the environment. I was amazed that people actually obeyed such requests (although clearly there were more who didn’t) – I always noticed a couple of perfectly good pieces of fruit lingering in the boxes. How I long for those days now, when the main risks of contagion were limited to citrus. (And no, I never really ate the fruit. It’s just a little poetic license.)
Citrus Amnesty Bin, Miami International Airpot, 2008
—with thanks to Emma Lazarus, New York City, 1883
Give me your pummelo, your ortanique, blood
orange from Seville, their rinds silent
(for what egg of pest is not latent?)
the wretched refuse that even should it brood
looks so delicious to me. O plastic
colossus, criollo of terror, guarding
the American terminal from fringe
exotics crashing our domestic
scene, I thank you when lines at Miami
Subs or the modified Versailles counter
move as if at a passport agency,
and my flight out to another shore
is delayed, my hunger ancient and free,
and peel the fruit beside the runway door.
You can find this and other food poems in Brie Season (Kelsay Books, 2014).
JK
