by Ariel Firebaugh, Director of Scientific Engagement
Jack Monsted, Blandy’s Assistant Curator for Native Plants, and I are tromping through Blandy’s back woodlot in search of pawpaws for an upcoming public program. The pawpaw (Asima triloba) produces the largest edible fruit native to North America. The fruit seems incongruously exotic for Appalachia —somewhere between a mango and a banana in taste, with a custard-like consistency. While other native North American fruits like blueberries and cranberries enjoy widespread cultivation, pawpaws are still largely reserved for the intrepid foragers lucky enough to find a productive patch. A short shelf life — more fleeting than even the fickle avocado — is one factor that has kept pawpaws out of modern grocery stores. Jack and I have special permission to collect a few fruits for the public program, but foraging is usually not allowed at Blandy. I try to remember to appreciate my privilege as I swat spider webs and side-step poison ivy.
The woodlot between the Ginkgo Grove and Berry’s Ferry Road has always struck me as Blandy’s equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle, a disorienting place awash with 100 years of ecological flotsam. Why are there boxwoods growing in the middle of the woods? Who left that survey flag behind? What happened to that trail I thought I was on? It seems fitting that a place like this would hide the remains of a once-important pawpaw orchard. As I’ve been reading up on pawpaw lore and legend, I’ve learned that any pilgrimage to historically-significant pawpaw sites would rightfully include this very woodlot.
Pawpaw fruit has an orange, custard-like consistency. Leaves are simple, alternate, and teardrop-shaped.
For over a hundred years, a small but determined group of horticulturists have worked to develop pawpaw varieties with more commercially-viable fruit. The American Genetic Association sponsored a competition in 1916 offering cash prizes for the largest and best-tasting pawpaw fruits in an effort to identify promising genetic lines. Pawpaws were entered from all over the country. In the end, Mrs. Frank Ketter of Ironton, Ohio beat out 74 other entrants to win the competition. “The flesh is medium yellow in color, mild but very rich in flavor, neither insipid nor cloying,” the judges opined. “The amount and quality of the flesh, together with the good shipping and ripening qualities of the fruit, make this an extremely desirable variety.” Sounds like a winner!
At the end of the competition, several horticulturalists set about propagating and crossing pawpaw lines from Mrs. Ketter’s trees in orchards throughout the eastern United States. One pioneering pawpaw breeder, George Zimmerman, planted over 60 varieties at his orchard near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. When Zimmerman passed away, his widow donated a sizable portion of the collection to Blandy’s first director and plant geneticist Dr. Orland E. White. Among these were descendants of Ms. Ketter’s prize-winning trees. Somewhere in Blandy’s back woods may be pawpaw royalty!
Jack and I find plenty of pawpaws during our expedition, mostly lanky, mid-sized trees. In the book Pawpaw: In Search of America’s Forgotten Fruit, author Andy Moore describes the remnants of Dr. White’s pawpaw orchard as two parallel lines of mature, evenly-spaced trees. I can’t say I’ve ever noticed anything like this in my woodlot wanderings. Maybe the trees have died, or maybe I haven’t looked hard enough. It’s not clear that any Blandy research professors after Dr. White took a particular interest in pawpaw cultivation. Major research focci at Blandy tend to change as new faculty and students bring new areas of expertise and interest. Still, I appreciate knowing that Blandy played a small but noteworthy role in the larger project of pawpaw improvement.