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Normal (A) and mutant seedless sugar apples (B and C), courtesy of PNAS

If fruit trees grow from seeds, how do you grow seedless fruit? It’s not unusual for plants to produce mutant fruit that lacks seeds, but these fruits are usually the end of their line. Naturally occurring hybrids can also make sterile fruit. The varieties that we eat are specifically hybridized to be seedless, like seedless watermelon or bananas, or grafted onto host root stocks, like seedless oranges.

Navel oranges (named for the belly-button shaped indentation in the peel; did everyone else already know this?) were first planted in California in 1872; the New York Times looked back on the fruit’s origins in an article from 1902 (pdf).

The fine original seedless orange trees came from Bahia, Brazil, and were imported through the sense of a woman. Mr. Nellie Desmond of Syracuse, N.Y., was visiting her brother in a rubber camp along the Amazon. The natives brought her several seedless oranges, which were a curiosity to her. She inquired whence they came, and found they grew upon a clump of freak orange trees in the neighborhood.

The woman with sense brought some fruit back to the United States, and word got to the Commissioner of Agriculture, who instructed the consulate at Brazil to ship him some trees. A few years later, Mrs. Luther C. Tibbets, who was well-connected, procured three trees from an experimental USDA garden for land her husband was homesteading in what is now downtown Riverside, California. One of the trees was eaten by a cow, but after five years the others bore fruit. “On Jan. 22, 1878, two of the new oranges were cut open and critically tasted by a little company of orange growers at Riverside. A new star of the first magnitude rose that day in the horticultural firmament.”

Another star of the first magnitude might well arise from a recent report in PNAS. A mutant seedless sugar apple (Annona squamosa) from Thailand was found to have a genetic disruption that blocks ovule development. Fortuitously, similar mutations have been intensively studied in Arabidopsis, a mustard plant that is the lab rat of botany. Understanding this genetic pathway could lead to seedless sugar apples or soursops. Fruits in this genus “have a meat with a sherbet-like texture and a flavor that has been compared with a mixture of banana and pineapple,” the authors write, but huge seeds make these fruits a bit of a chore to eat or process. They also point out that Mark Twain described Annona as “the most delicious fruits known to men.”

Has anyone tried these fruits? I’m intrigued—and wouldn’t mind fighting through the seeds while the seedless varieties are in development.

Grilled swordish, courtesy of Flickr user ulterior epicure

There’s a hilarious skit in the IFC show Portlandia that pokes fun at the current preoccupation in certain circles with knowing exactly where one’s food comes from. A couple (played by Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein) give their waitress the third degree about not only the diet and living conditions of Colin, the chicken they are considering ordering, but its social life on the farm and the sincerity of the farmer’s motives.

It’s been especially difficult for concerned eaters to get this kind of dossier on their wild-caught seafood. (Imagine: “He enjoyed exploring shipwrecks and the sound of migrating whales. He was on a squid and crustacean diet.”) Short of meeting the fishing boats as they return with their catch, you’re unlikely to know much about who was responsible for bringing your fish to the table. But a step in that direction was recently taken.

In September 2010, Maine-based Hannaford Supermarkets started selling fresh swordfish caught by Linda Greenlaw, captain of the Hannah Boden, and her crew. Greenlaw was featured in Sebastian Junger’s bestselling book The Perfect Storm (and portrayed by Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio in the 2000 film adaptation). She has also written her own bestsellers and appears in the Discovery Channel show Swords: Life on the Line. She might be the most famous American commercial fisherman since Slade Gorton, whose Gloucester, Massachusetts, cod business evolved into the iconic frozen fish stick brand.

I first heard about the Greenlaw-branded fish in a slightly outdated copy of Down East, a regional Maine magazine, that had been passed around my office, so the North Atlantic swordfish season—which runs from roughly September to November—is already over. But the product was reportedly so popular that I imagine it will be back this year.

The fish wasn’t packaged, but a sign by the fish display at the supermarket chain’s 176 outlets advertised, “A fresh catch from Linda Greenlaw, captain of the Hannah Boden.” According to an article in the Portland Press Herald, the chain sold its first 34,000 pounds in just a week, far more quickly than usual. Browne Trading Company also sold and distributed the Hannah Boden fish to restaurants, including Wolfgang Puck’s Spago Beverly Hills. Celebrity chef meets celebrity sea captain.

Wait, I can sense you thinking, aren’t we supposed to avoid swordfish because it’s overfished? Apparently not anymore, at least in the North Atlantic. The Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch currently lists domestic swordfish as a “Best Choice,” although imported swordfish is still a no-no. A campaign to educate the public about the depleted swordfish stocks in the late 1990s was so successful, it seems, that the fisheries have had a chance to fully recover. Part of the point of the Hannaford effort was to get the word out about their rebound.

Of course, mercury is still an issue with swordfish, so it’s not advisable to eat a lot of it—young children and women who are nursing, pregnant, or may someday become pregnant should avoid it altogether because of the danger to developing nervous systems. And if people go crazy eating swordfish again, we’ll be back where we started.

Baked mac and cheese, courtesy of Flickr user fritish

The exact origin of macaroni and cheese is unknown, though it most likely hails from Northern Europe, with the earliest known recorded recipe being scribbled down in 1769. A staple of American cuisine, the creamy combo made its way to the United States courtesy of Thomas Jefferson, who, while visiting France, became enamored of fashionable pasta dishes served there. He brought back noodle recipes and a pasta machine, since this foodstuff was unavailable in the Colonies. As president, he served macaroni and cheese at an 1802 state dinner.

Kraft Foods introduced its boxed macaroni and cheese in 1937, when America was in the throes of the Great Depression. The product could serve four for 19 cents, and the company sold 8 million boxes of its quick-and-easy macaroni and cheese in a year. With rationing in effect during World War II, the boxed mix continued to gain in popularity; staples such as fresh meat and dairy were in short supply. It’s now the standard incarnation of the dish, and along with ramen noodles, the Kraft Dinner (as it’s known in Canada) is a mainstay of college student cuisine.

But some chefs are taking back the mac, putting inventive twists on this comfort food classic and making it worthy of fine dining establishments. (And yes, they’re upping the ante from Kraft’s novelty noodles, which resemble anything from cartoon characters to political mascots.) Some restaurants, such as S’Mac in New York, specialize in tantalizing variations on the dish—such as subbing in brie, figs, rosemary and mushrooms for the traditional cheddar-based sauce. Most restaurants, however, will have only have one or two options—but in a place like D.C., diners still have a fabulous variety to choose from, as the Washington Post will attest.

And then there’s Paula Deen, who wraps her mac and cheese in bacon, breads it and flash fries the stuff. (Although you can forego the bells and whistles and stick to her more traditional presentation of the casserole.)

When making mac and cheese for myself, I turn to the 1953 edition of the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, which calls for a sauce made from Velveeta, onion and cream of mushroom soup. Top it off with some salsa and a side of broccoli and I’m in a good place. So basically, it’s just an ever so slightly dressed up version of what you find on grocery store shelves. But do you think outside the little blue box? Tell us about your own fun take on macaroni and cheese in the comments area below.

A typical Roman streetscape, image courtesy of Flickr user boklm

We were so pleased with the variety of entries we received for our last Inviting Writing, about food and dating—they were sweet, funny, endearing, sad. Let’s see if we can top it with this month’s theme, a topic that anyone should be able to relate to: memorable meals. If it was the food itself that made it memorable, that’s fine—make our mouths water sharing every delectable detail. But it’s also acceptable—maybe even preferable—if the reason it was memorable was only tangentially related to the food. Maybe it was memorably disastrous (Dad burned breakfast, making you late for your driving test, which you subsequently failed), or was connected with a momentous event in your life (your first meal in your own home, for instance). Set the scene and let us feel whatever it was that still lingers in your memory, for better or worse.

As a reminder, submissions should be true, original personal essays somehow inspired by this invitation. Send yours to FoodandThink@gmail.com with “Inviting Writing: Most Memorable Meal” in the subject line by this Friday morning, March 25. We’ll read them all and post our favorites on subsequent Mondays. Remember to include your full name and a biographical detail or two (your city and/or profession; a link to your own blog if you’d like that included).

I’ll start.

When In Rome
by Lisa Bramen

I had the most memorable meal of my life (so far) about 15 years ago, on a summer night in Rome. It wasn’t the fanciest food I have ever eaten. It wasn’t the most impressive feat of culinary skill; I don’t even recall every dish that was served. It certainly wasn’t the worst meal I’ve had—that dishonor may belong to a plate of lukewarm spaghetti swimming in orange grease, served by a grumpy waiter about an hour after I had ordered it. This was also in Rome. A travel tip: unless you are dining with the Pope himself, get as far away from the Vatican as possible before attempting to find a decent bite.

Here’s some more advice: If you have the good fortune to be 24, a recent college graduate with a three-month Eurail Pass (acquired with a deep discount through the job you just quit at a corporate travel agency), make sure one of your stops is Rome. There, look up a former co-worker named Lisa (no relation to yourself), who moved there to start her own travel business. Even though you don’t know her well, she will be happy to show you around. She will take you to off-the-beaten-track places, for instance, a church decorated entirely with human skulls and crossbones. She’ll introduce you to local delicacies like pizza rustica—thin-crusted squares with little or no cheese—and candied chestnuts. She will know the best spots for gelato.

One night she will invite you to dinner with her Italian friends, Francesca and Paolo, and another man whose name you will not remember. Although they will attempt English conversation with you, they will speak Italian most of the time. You won’t mind—all the better to soak in the atmosphere and the pleasurably melodic sound of the language, stripped of its meaning. Dinner will be at a small trattoria on a side street far from the tourist attractions. You will be seated outside; it will be a warm summer evening. You will drink wine.

The others will order food for the table to share. Each dish will be unfamiliar to you, exciting: fried zucchini blossoms stuffed with a soft cheese and something salty that you realize too late is anchovies (but, even though you have been a vegetarian for years, you will not care because it will be so delicious); orecchiette with broccoli rabe.

For dessert, you will order some lemon gelato to bring back to Francesca and Paolo’s apartment. You will sit on their lovely terrace, eating gelato and drinking small glasses of pear brandy. You will feel giddy from the alcohol, the setting, the company.

At the end of the night, the nameless Italian man will offer you a ride back to your hostel. It will be on a Vespa. As you buzz through the streets of Rome on the back of his scooter, you will feel as if you could launch yourself into the heavens like Diana, the Roman moon goddess. You will remember this feeling forever.

Zeppoles for San Giuseppe's Day. Image courtesy of Flickr user digisea

The Catholic calendar is chock-a-block with saints’ days, though some are observed with more gusto than others. A few become crossover holidays (pun not intended) celebrated even by people who don’t know their “Hail Mary” from their “Our Father.” For instance, yesterday, March 17, was St. Gertrude’s Day, and people really whooped it up for the patron saint of cats. All those people wearing green must have been celebrating her association with gardening, right?

Tomorrow is another big saint’s day, this time for San Giuseppe, a.k.a. St. Joseph—as in “Jesus, Mary and….” Although it’s also celebrated elsewhere, the day has special significance for Sicilians, who attribute help from St. Joseph for saving them from a serious drought in the Middle Ages. People set up “St. Joseph’s tables,” altars laden with special foods, flowers and devotional objects to give thanks for the help the saint gave during the drought and for individual prayers the celebrants believe he has answered, such as bringing a loved one home from war. Because the day falls during Lent, the dishes are all meatless (at least by the Catholic definition, which doesn’t count fish as meat). They vary from place to place, but often include fava beans, which were one of the few crops that flourished during the drought, breadcrumbs to represent sawdust (Joseph taught Jesus the carpenter’s trade), and various breads and pastas.

In Italy Online gives an account of one Italian-American family’s celebration. Individuals are chosen to portray Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and they are the first to have a taste of each of the dishes. Afterward guests are also invited to eat. In this case the foods are all what might have been served in the village of the host’s ancestors, including vegetable dishes like fennel, stuffed eggplant and artichokes, fruits and cannoli and other pastries.

In New Orleans, possibly the parade float capital of the world (though New York is a strong contender), a St. Joseph’s Day parade follows right on the heels of the Mardi Gras season and the St. Gert—I mean, St. Patrick’s—Day parade. In San Juan Capistrano, home of one of my favorites of the California missions (although I wrote my 4th grade report on Mission San Gabriel), St. Joseph’s Day is when the swallows return from their winter migration.

If there’s one food St. Joseph’s Day deserves to be as famous as its Irish counterpart for, it’s zeppole, sometimes spelled zeppoli or called sfinge di San Giuseppe. These small doughnuts are usually dusted with sugar and can be filled with jelly, custard or ricotta cream like the kind in cannoli. If you’re lucky you have an Italian bakery in your area that makes them, or you can attempt them yourself—Giada De Laurentiis gives a recipe for a simple, unstuffed version like the kind I’ve eaten at Italian street fairs in New York City. Personally, I’d take zeppole over corned beef and cabbage any day.