Paw paws are both real and here
Approximately 400 years ago, we discussed paw paws, mostly as an aside while going deep on the farmers market. Since then, two things have happened: everyone figured out the decades-long objective truth that the farmers market is horny, and The Times got on it. Now that we are close to frost point, there is more to say about paw paws.
I have a paw paw tree in my backyard, but they grow slowly, and it won’t bear fruit for a few years yet. But I get paw paws every year. I have found only one reliable source for paw paws – and, for that matter, paw paw tree seedlings – in the city of Chicago, and that is Oriana.
One could write a book about Oriana. She mostly sells Asian pears at the farmers market all season. Every so often, you can get drinking vinegar made with pear, quince, or goji berry. Persimmons come in in early fall, a sweet blessing. And then for two weeks in September she goes ham with paw paws.
Oriana knows justice. “You bought paw paw last week?,” she says, knowing the answer. “Yes.” “You got enough this year,” and waves you off. You buy pears in apology, in failure.
Or: “You got paw paw tree?” “Yes.” “How’s it doing?” “Good.” “You mulch yet?” “No…” And then you are subject to a 10-minute speech about how you must mulch around the base of your paw tree, precisely an inch deep, in a six inch radius. Then you are handed a green paw paw the size of a softball. “Paper bag on your counter for 4 days.” Your card is swiped for you don’t know how much. You are waved off.
Or: “You buy paw paws last month?” “Yeah, I miss them.” “You get this.” And you are handed a plate of impossible paw paws in October for the first time in your life. “Second fruiting. Climate change.” Your card is swiped again.
Paw paws are ancient fruit. Humans haven’t messed with them much. The best thing you can do to food is to give it time. Paw paws have lots of time inside of them: they are weird, unapologetic, take lots of time to grow, and not the most legibly sensible.
Paw Paws grow green, but they are best well after picking, when they turn a truly problematic shade of brown. The goal is to elicit a stare like: You’re feeding me what? You say “paw paw” and they look at you like you have six heads. Like the Michigan town? Yes, in fact paw paws grow there. Like the song? Yes, they’ve talked about this. What is it? It sort of tastes like a cross between SweeTarts and mango. It’s genetically related to sugar apples. Nobody asks what sugar apples are because they have the word “apple” in there, a linguistic port in a paw paw storm, and that can be enough disorientation for now.
You don’t eat the seeds; you clean them dry with your teeth & tongue, and and spit them out. The seeds are saved to grow more paw paws. This feels obvious enough, but people are still a little shocked by the ritual. There is no way to eat a paw paw cleanly, and it’s almost a sin to eat one alone, so everyone is looking at each other to see how judgey we’re all getting.
All of this ceases to matter when you take your first bite, because ripe, mushy paw paws are fucking amazing. You have had nothing like them. They taste like if mangos fell in love and wanted to show you some jealousy-causing unconditional joy. The paw paw disappears in minutes, every time. The skin is left behind, a deflated corpse. You sit in gratitude and wonder where this thing was your whole life.