And I do live in pawpaw country. Or I did. They grew wild in the woods where I spent my childhood.
As the weather got colder last week, I decided it was the perfect time to make pawpaw ice cream.
I was wondering why there's a December article about ice cream in the northern hemisphere, but really, ice cream is a forever treat.
I tested several recipes I thought would work well with the fruit’s flavor—a mix of banana, mango, and durian.
None of which, I must emphasize, are native to Virginia. Not by a long shot. Hell, durian grows on damn near the opposite side of the planet. (I'll refrain from making durian jokes this time after a faux pas in the newsfeed yesterday.)
Flavor is flavor, though. My dad always called them "Virginia bananas."
I chose a simple ice cream recipe, a mixture of pawpaw puree, sugar, cream, and milk.
Unfortunately, Dad never figured out how to prepare pawpaw, and my mother refused to. Just as well, considering her other attempts at cooking. She tried, she really did, but just never got the hang of it.
Since pawpaws are notoriously difficult to cultivate, foraging is the best way to obtain a large amount.
But that's work.
On the other hand, it's probably cheap, or even, in my case, free.
The author apparently lives in New York, and honestly, I didn't know pawpaws ranged all the way up there. Nice to learn new things.
Making ice cream is, of course, also work, so I won't be doing it. Still, it's nice to know that this relatively obscure wild fruit, connected to my personal history in some small way, is getting the respect it deserves.
