Greetings, friends, and welcome back to Scholar Minor.
I generally try to connect my episode with something going on in my life, or, at least, with something I’ve been recently preoccupied with. This week, that subject is citrus.
My partner and I are very lucky to have a beautiful mandarin tree in our yard. While I love mandarins, we have not been able to keep up this year. This tree is amazing - it has grown so much since we moved it and produces pounds and pounds of fruit every season. By February, past the ideal point of harvesting, most of them are falling faster than we can eat them.
They are still delicious, and while this weekend I’ll be gathering as many as I can to donate, I do feel a little guilty we weren’t able to take care of them all myself. So in gratitude to our mandarin tree, this week we’ll be talking about citrus.
Thank you for listening, and I hope you enjoy.
California and citrus fruits are basically inseparable. Our mild climate allows citrus varieties to be harvested year-round, with the USDA reporting 7.78 million tons harvested in the 2019-2020 season.
This accounts for 54 percent of the total citrus production in the entire United States, with Florida and Texas trailing behind. Here in the Sacramento Valley, local orchards still produce wonderful - you guessed it, mandarins - and they are readily available at farmer's markets and in farm-to-fork eateries.
Despite citrus growing so well here, these fruits aren't actually native to California. They were introduced in Southern California by the Spanish around 1769, and by the turn of the century, the industry had caught on - benefiting from the influx of population brought by transcontinental railway travel.
Citrus fruits, especially oranges, became a hugely popular crop - especially Valencia oranges, whose image you might recognize from some of the "come to sunny California" propaganda of the early twentieth century.
There was a brief lull in citrus production during World War II, but by the 1960s it was on track to regain and surpass its prior popularity. Navel oranges became, and remain, the most common variety of citrus grown in this state. Even despite lower production than usual due to the pandemic, in 2020 the citrus industry in California alone was still worth 3.4 billion dollars.
While citrus clearly likes it here, as my little mandarin can attest, where did they come from? Turns out, citrus fruits originated in Southeast Asia. In an article for the horticultural science journal, aptly named HortScience, author Dafna Langgut traces the route of citrus from their Southeast Asian origins westward and into the Mediterranean basin.
The earliest citrus to travel west was Citrus medica, or citron. Evidence of citron has been found in the remains of ancient Persian and Roman gardens. In Rome, we find the very earliest generations of lemons in the Mediterranean. Contextually, archeologists have determined that these plants were very highly valued - and in their early days moving westward, they were only found in the gardens of the very rich.
But these civilizations were certainly not the first to value citrus. Rainer W. Scora of the Torrey Botanical Society explains that the earliest descriptions of citrus fruits is in Sanskrit literature dated earlier than 800 BCE. The Indian god Ganesh was associated with the citron, and some Buddhist art from the regions surrounding Java depicted the citron in the hand of Kuvera.
Interestingly, the fingered citron is known as the Buddha's Hand Citron. When I worked at a local natural foods store, we sold these - and boy are they interesting looking fruits! If you have never seen one before, they are waxy, yellow, and, well, many-fingered. They don't really have much fruit inside but you can grate them over salads and the like for a wonderful lemon-zesty flavor.
The Buddha's Hand Citron symbolizes happiness and longevity in some parts of China, and it serves as a meaningful offering at temple altars and in the home. Known as the bushukan in Japan, it is a popular gift to bring good luck in the New Year.
The regular old citron is what Alexander the Great brought back with him to Greece. These yellow fruits are larger than lemons and have an extremely thick, bumpy rind. It has been remarkably difficult for historians to track down the exact chronology of citrus fruit introduction in the west.
While Greek and Latin writers mentioned them, they had a tendency to use multiple different names for them interchangeably. Often they are referred to as a type of apple tree - Pliny, for instance, refers to them as Assyrian apples and the citron. In his Naturalis Historia, published in 77 CE, Pliny describes the citron:
"The citron tree, called the Assyrian, and by some the Median apple, is an antidote against poisons . . . As to the fruit, it is never eaten, but it is remarkable for its extremely powerful smell, which is the case, also, with the leaves;
indeed, the odour is so strong, that it is very useful in repelling the attacks of noxious insects . . . It is this fruit, the pips of which, as we have already mentioned, the Parthian grandees employ in seasoning their ragouts, as being peculiarly conducive to the sweetening of the breath."
While citrus steadily gained popularity in the Mediterranean over the centuries, it didn't spread North very effectively for one primary reason: the weather. Citrus plants were not a fan of the colder climates and more rugged terrain, preferring the mild weather and sunshine. Though the occasional citron made its way north via trade routes, it wasn't until as late as the late medieval period we start finding references in northern Europe.
Flemish surgeon Jan Yperman mentioned the citron's effectiveness at whitening teeth in the 14th century. Interestingly, you can find folks recommending lemon juice and baking soda as a DIY natural teeth-whitening method today. It isn't recommended, though, as the acidity of the lemon juice can ultimately harm your enamel and do more harm than good.
By this era, the very wealthy were able to afford imported citrus and they became signals of status. Oranges, in particular, were a popular gift among the aristocracy. In the famous 1434 Arnolfini portrait by Jan van Eijck, depicting the Italian merchant Giovanni Arnolfini and his bride, oranges are included in the background to demonstrate their wealth and status.
By the 17th century, citrus was all the rage. Wealthy estates throughout Europe began to include rooms or buildings on their properties called orangeries - dedicated greenhouses, just for growing citrus and other fruit trees.
Glass windows allowed sunlight in, and a stone or brick wall reflected the warmth of the light into the room to keep the temperature high enough. Over time, as importing citrus became cheaper and more easily accessible, these orangeries became used for more delicate ornamental house plants - which became all the rage in the Victorian era.
Since they weren't terribly common until after the medieval period, there isn't a ton of citrus-related superstition. But, the 1903 Encyclopedia of Superstitions does inform us that the French believe lemon juice is essential to a long life. And - surprisingly - in this one particular case, the Encyclopedia has a point.
During the 18th century, folks had started traveling across and exploring the sea with great enthusiasm. Unfortunately, sailors on long voyages began to experience truly terrible symptoms - weakness, exhaustion, depression, joint pain, bleeding and swollen gums, blue or red spots on the skin . . . and sometimes, their teeth would even fall out. Author Marcus White, writing for the BBC, informs us that one British expedition in the 1740s lost 1,300 sailors to scurvy - leaving only 700 alive when they reached port.
Physicians at the time weren't sure what would cure this mysterious disease. Some recommended, of course, blood-letting. Others thought that sauerkraut might do the trick - a remedy championed by the explorer Captain Cook. Even diluted sulphuric acid was considered a possible treatment.
But some sailors, without knowing it, were on the way to preventing scurvy. In his article, White explains that those fellows on board who chose to eat the rats riding along on their vessel were actually getting Vitamin C, as rats are able to synthesize this vitamin on their own.
Scottish naval surgeon James Lind, known as the "father of naval medicine", conducted a series of experiments to determine the true cause of scurvy and find a way to prevent it. To do this, he administered a variety of treatments to sailors suffering from scurvy - including sea water, the diluted sulphuric acid, vinegar, and oranges and lemons.
As you may have gathered from the sauerkraut theory, there was some understanding that sourness somehow helped with scurvy. Lind's citrus-eating patients were vastly improved after a week. The others had not fared quite as well.
Strangely, most animals - aside from us, monkeys, and guinea pigs - can produce their own vitamin C. Scurvy is the result of severe vitamin C deficiency, and it causes the protein collagen to break down and fail to replace itself. Because tissues that rely on this process - in the joints, around the mouth, and under the skin - start to degrade, it is an incredibly painful and demoralizing illness.
Lind's discovery made long-distance sea travel without the threat of scurvy possible. Unfortunately, lemon juice rations were not provided to the British Navy until around 1795 - 42 years after Lind published his findings.
In the 19th century, oranges - especially little mandarins, like mine - became a Christmas staple. It is during this era that the practice of hanging stockings by the fire gained traction - and oranges made great stocking stuffers.
Traditionally, an orange would be placed in the toe of each stocking, representing the legend of Saint Nicholas and the three golden balls. In her article for Smithsonian Magazine, Jackie Manskey posits that these balls may have also referred to bags of gold, or possibly coins - which seems a little more likely.
The legend tells us that Saint Nicholas gave these three golden somethings to three poor maidens to use as their dowries. Some historians believe that if the story is true, it may be instead have been women buying their freedom from slavery using the gold from Saint Nick - or rather, the real Bishop of Myra who lived in the fourth century. In lieu of putting a bag of gold in the toe of a stocking, which could add up quickly depending how many children you have, 19th century traditions settled for lovely little mandarins instead.
To end with some of our usual weirdness from the Encyclopedia of Superstitions:
"When you eat an orange, say to yourself: 'Orange, orange, tell me true; shall I marry my true love or no?' Then count the seeds, yes, no, yes, no, and the last seed will give you the answer."
As always, thanks for joining me, folks. I hope you are all staying safe and healthy.
My sources are listed in the show notes, and if you haven’t already, please consider subscribing to Scholar Minor wherever you find your podcasts. Also, please recommend to a friend if you think they’d enjoy our random musings. You’ll also find my website and contact email in the description.
Have a great week, and I’ll talk to you all again very soon!
