FEIJOA
“I’ve been coming every Friday for the past couple weeks, but I gotta ask, do y’all got any fruit?”
This was the first exchange I’d had with any of the Food Pantry’s community members since I began interning at the farm 2 months ago. I hadn’t realized how much I needed this moment of connection with the folks who share the land and its fruits (or in this case, vegetables) with me, until it was delivered in this soft-spoken question. I was practically bubbling over with zeal, the kind that only hours working under a hot sun can brew, and ready to engage with something more vocal than a head of cabbage.
“Nope, apples and strawberries are pretty much past season. We might have some citrus coming in the next few weeks, so look out for that. Have you tried the kale?”
“Yeah, I took some. Just looking for something,” they paused, probably trying to find a word that wouldn’t insult the clear reverence I had for the leafy greens in my delivery box, “sweeter.”
Ah, there was the rub. I sank a little deeper into my muddy hiking boots to consider that, as much goodness and green and gosh darn gorgeousness kale possesses, sweetness it doth lack. And is there anything stronger than a wholehearted craving for something sweet and round and born from so many turnings of the earth in summer’s peak? To deny hunger for a fresh apple would be akin to burning the book on thousands of years of human mythology. And equally as difficult would be to ignore the yearning for strawberry jam licked from sticky fingers, or ripe peaches sliced over a puddle of vanilla ice cream, or everything that was good and pure in the middle of childhood. My Dad, who doles out Confucius teachings on wellness over dim sum fried donuts, has long guided me along the middle path, walking roads both bitter and sweet, salty and sour, and respecting the necessity in each. My Mom, a clinical dietician for 37 years, whispers “it’s all about balance” like it’s an incantation to fend off the evils of excess and extremes. Looking up at such a hopeful face, I needed to brace myself for the difficulty of extolling kale’s virtues, to sing the song of bitterness, arguably the most challenging note to hit.
Until I remembered what the farm was growing in heady supply. A fruit I had never seen before my internship, resembling a tiny dragon egg with smooth, dimpled skin turned tender as it ripens. A fruit of such unassuming inner colour, the faintest hint of yellow, that disguised a sweet explosion of old fashioned bubblegum in taste. The feijoa. I started beaming, an ode to the feijoa is a tune I’ve learned well, some of which was passed down to me from older interns, but most which came from enthusiastic exploration. One bite is all it takes to succumb to a kind of worship for the fruit and its tree, which continues to provide well into San Francisco’s winter season. I described the location, look, texture and taste to my curious audience before returning to the day’s other duties. I don’t know if they ever did try the feijoa, as I never saw them at the pantry again. But for myself, the encounter was a call to my nose, a reminder to sniff around, flip over rocks, question the bees, hunt through the earth, ask for help, whatever is needed to reclaim the sweetness that we all deserve.
