talking to trees

Someone recently compared me to a fig tree. I, of course, immediately thought of the strangler fig, but was reassured that that wasn't quite what she meant. This and the fact that many of our trees are raining fruit this week, has left me pondering trees.

I love trees. I love their size, their quiet, their enduring nature. I find myself thanking them for their fruits, their seeds, their shade, their wood, for feeding the mushrooms when they rot, for feeding the birds and insects throughout the year, for providing habitat, protection, nourishment. For their beauty.

I think it makes a difference. The Rose of Venezuela throws out incredible oblong seeds that are prized here on the farm. The seeds take a year to form in their pods and are expelled with a crack and twist - easy to miss, and the reason we have a grove of saplings forming around the mother tree rather than a line of potted seedlings in the nursery. The days I walk with the dogs I talk with the Rose of Venezuela. I ask her for her seeds, and always, always if I ask she reveals them one by one half hidden, half buried in the grass and leaf litter around her. Today I found 14, one after the other. Just for the asking. And the thanking.

Rose of Venezuela pods and flower:

I like fig trees.

hot jobos cause explosion

I knew it would happen. It was like the day I learned to ride my bike: I cycled over broken glass and it didn't harm my tires, so I turned back and did it again - 2 flat tires and no more bike riding. It was the same with the jobos.

I knew I wasn't supposed to put hot things in my plastic jugged blender, but the day before I had been impatient and had done it anyway without any ill effects. So I reasoned that I could do it again, being careful not to put too many in. But wrong. Within a few seconds the plastic exploded sending shards all over the kitchen, spraying walls and counter tops with hot jobo juice and sending the scalding pits flying everywhere. The blade continued to whir, effectively cleaning out all of the hot sticky mess, until I could reach behind it and yank the plug out the wall.

That was the end of that experiment.

We have three large jobo trees which have been dropping copious quantities of thumb length, fat, yellow brown fruit for weeks now. The jobo is related to the jocote and the june plum, both of which give larger fruits than this smaller cousin, and both of which are sold in markets and by roadsides all around Costa Rica. I like the taste - very apricot like in a sour kind of way, and strongly flavoured. However the pit is large and the fruit fibrous: not so practical for my purpose.

And yet . . . well we have three large trees dropping fruit I'm stepping on as I harvest carambolas. What to do? I'm giving vinegar a go - fill a bucket, cover, shake periodically, strain a month later, bottle for several more months. The fruit is somewhat sweet, it should make vinegar. And jam? Well the taste tells me yes, but scraping that 1/8th inch flesh from round the seed - is a little crazy making, especially when I've got ALL this other fruit piling up in the kitchen. So I thought I'd simmer it a little to soften and extract as much of the juice, then throw it in the blender and strain it.

So now I've had to just stick with the juice - not a lot to work with, but we'll see. If I can make a syrup that would be fine. A long time ago I made sloe gin. I think jobo gin might be quite nice . . .

Mangosteens are in!

Eric Mjöberg, a Swedish explorer, zoologist and ethnographer, wrote of the mangosteen:

"...an abundant white, juicy pulp, soft, sweet, slightly acidulated, and with a delicate, delicious flavour, which recalls that of a fine peach, muscatel grapes, and something peculiar and indescribable which no other fruit has."

"The mangosteen has only one fault; it is impossible to eat enough of it, but, strictly speaking, perhaps that is a defect in the eater rather than in the fruit."

and;

"It would be mere blasphemy to attempt to describe its wonderful taste, the very culmination of culinary art for any unspoilt palate."


The Mangosteen (Garcinia mangostana), is a beautiful evergreen tree with good sized dark glossy green leaves. Size ranges from 7 to 25 meters, although most of the trees we have are around 12 meters. The branches run fairly straight out from the trunk making climbing the tree about as simple as walking up a spiral staircase. The fruit vary in size from a little larger than a ping pong ball, to a little smaller than a tennis ball. When ripe they are an incredible royal purple colour.

Breaking open a mangosteen is - for the first timer - (and for the first time each season thereafter), an opportunity for rapture: the denseness and richness of the purple, possibly streaked through with bright green fibers; the mound of juicy, soft white flesh, ready to fall into segments; the light floral fruity scent and the rising levels of salivia in the mouth as one knows just how good it's going to taste. The taste, especially if the mangosteen isn't quite as ripe as it could be - is at first sour like an unripe strawberry can be (but lighter than that), then just as your wincing from the acidity, the most mellow subtle sweetness hits. Simply wonderful.

The mangosteen (the Queen of Fruit, Durian incidentally is regarded as the King of Fruit) has some interesting peculiarities: firstly the fruit does not require fertilization; secondly the 'shell' or husk becomes harder the older the fruit is - old mangosteens can lie on the ground for 2 years or so before they'll begin to break down (even in this climate); there was an import ban on fresh mangosteens into mainland USA until 2007; Queen Victoria supposedly offered rich rewards to anyone who could bring her the fruit.

Mangosteens are also enjoying something like star status in the world of 'superfoods' - seemingly the xanthones found only in the inedible shell fix just about every ill. Too bad the husk is far far far too bitter to eat.

But I'll settle for that unbearably good almost painful first bite where the balance between sweet and sour is enough to drive one to madness. Say it again Mr Mjoberg!

wowolo! Mabolo!

The harvests are coming in thick and fast. Today the Mabolos started to drop. The Mabolo or Velvet Apple is one of my favourites.


I gathered a 5 gallon bucket of the fruit below the tree and all down the little hill which the tree tops. The fruit are easy to find, a low russet red among the brown leaves. So pretty. They look like a firm white peach - a russet pink skin with a downy pinkish green fuzz topped by a simple 4 lobed green crown which hugs the fruit and turns red-black with age. Inside the skin the fruit is pink tinged but changes rapidly to a white cream. It's hard like an unripe peach, but not crunchy, the texture is dry and a tiny bit grainy. There's no real bite to the fruit but it's firm and pleasant. The taste is subtly floral, and I know there's something it reminds me of, just can't remember what. Inside there are between 4 and 7 seeds each about the size of a brazil nut: I don't think they're edible.

The fruit is ready when it falls, sometimes it bruises a little in the drop and if bruised, or if left for a day or two it will start to become mushy and soft. Not a long shelf life. Best to eat when found.

Tonight I put some in the dehydrator to see if they'll work in the dried fruit mix. I hope they do, the floral taste will be a nice addition, and because they are so dry to start they should dry quickly. I've put them in at a lower temperature, we'll see in the morning . . . I also cooked a little in some lime juice and sugar to see how they might hold up as a preserve: not sure yet, need to test more tomorrow, but first impressions are quite good - close to pear in both texture and taste, so might make a good butter with a little added vanilla, or a great pie or crumble.

I first tasted Mabolo last year and am very excited and happy to be able to use it this season. The seeds i planted from last years fruits look about ready to graft too. Oh it's such a nice busy happy time.

Just read that the skin is supposed to smell like rotten cheese, ours seem not to, just smell fruity.

Durians are here!

Our durian harvest has begun. We have two trees, an older one of about 15 years which is roughly 18 meters tall, and a 5 year old which is maybe 6 meters in height. The young tree has her first fruiting this year, last year she gave flowers but they all dropped. I'm happy she's fruiting.

Durians are beautiful trees large yet somehow delicate with smaller leaves which are a mossy green above and a subtle golden bronze below. The flowers are fist sized and shaped rather like a bell with a ping pong ball stuck in the opening. They grow straight from the branches, and we had hundreds, if not thousands this year. If the flower is pollinated it drops the petals and looks a little like a bean pod sticking out from a tiny ball, this takes 3 months or so to grow into the most incredible geometrical wonder, full of sharp green spikes in a pattern that must correspond to the Fibonacci sequence, it seems so perfect. As the fruit grows and swells we worried about fruit set, sure enough many of the young fruits dropped and we had to cull several more for fear of branches breaking with the weight.

It's been 3 months now and the fruit are ripe. They have to fall by themselves and will lie on the ground for a day or so before they open. One can tell from some distance when the fruit splits along its 5 seams: the smell is intense and unmistakable. One can smell it from a good distance, maybe 25 yards. It's an unusual smell, heady, rich, strong, perhaps unpleasant. I've been interested in this fruit since I was a child watching David Attenburgh on the BBC wincing and retching as he sat beside a large open durian in the rainforests of Burma. It took a long time before I was able to smell what all the fuss was about.

Inside there are pockets of fruit, sometimes more than 5 segments with fruit hidden away in secret chambers which one has to find cautiously as the spikes are very sharp: one has to feel through the thick ridges within to see if there is hidden treasure. The fruit is white or yellow and dense and is shaped, to me, (and this may well sound strange), like the embryo of a manatee. The fruit is soft and tastes - well it's a matter of opinion. Some say it's divine, others that it's like rotten fish in condensed milk, others say carmelised garlic and onions in custard. It's a very personal thing. I love it.

The seeds are simple and carmel coloured and can be roasted and eaten or cooked in asian style dishes. Some say it's wise not to eat too many at one time, but with the average durian size being about a kilo and a half, there's not so many seeds to share around.

Recipes for durian include cakes, ice-cream, candies and savoury dishes with unripe fruits. Here it never gets as far as the kitchen, we scoop it right out of its beautiful shell. The dogs love it too. Today we took 3 to market and for those in the know it was the first durian of the season. The three were gone within 5 minutes. Last year I dried some fruit and added it to a connoissuer's mix. It was rather good mixed with jackfruit, champadeck and bananas.

Durians can be found in most Asian markets either fresh, dried, frozen or in cans. I'd recommend a sampling . . .

. . . and I'm back

Been offline for a bit with family visiting. Out of the kitchen, off the farm and into the big world of children on vacation. Phew, my respect to all mothers. This Sunday is Mothers' Day in Costa Rica and I wish all of you who have taken on the enormous task a happy, peaceful and sane day.

But now it's back to the farm, my beloved kitchen and all those lovely things I get to do with my days. Araza and Ginger cookies are in the oven, some Carambola sweet and sour sauce is setting up and I'm waiting for the limes to arrive. The weather has been very wet for the last two weeks (sorry visiting family members) and it's taken its toll on the forest. We have lost several large trees, and the farmer has been busy planting new ones. Amongst the forest trees he has planted a new curry tree, a champudeck and a jackfruit - yippee!!! There's something wonderfully settling about planting fruit trees, a soft anticipation of future wealth and abundance, a reminder that all good things come with time, a nod to the seasons and cycles of time. Storing up for the future means there is trust and faith that there will be a future, a time to come. And that that time will be full of fruit. Love it.

Back in the present our latest tree casualty is one of our key limes. A large branch sheared to the ground, laden with fruit. What to do? I can think of a couple of things . . .

I've been looking at lime marmalade recipes and have discovered several lovely blogs in the process:

Feeding Maybelle
Pastry Heaven
Through my Kitchen Window

I'm off to make a cup of tea and check on the cookies.