“Fresh, whole round oranges are hardly extinct, of course, but they have seen better days since they left the garden of the Hesperides.”
— John McPhee, Oranges, 1967
I love oranges. When I was working as a summer associate at the law firm Cravath, Swaine & Moore in New York, I would read pages of McPhee’s classic book on oranges each morning. I swear my roommate at the time was convinced I was too strange to deal with because of that habit. “Oranges!! It’s just a book about fruit?” Dressed in a black suit and silky cream blouse, she screwed up her face in irritation. “Yes, it is,” I replied. I’ve always found oranges magical: Beautifully colored, they hold up well in a bag and can be neatly unpacked, slice by slice. McPhee became a seer for me that year.
“75 Percent of Florida’s Oranges Have Been Lost to Disease.” It was a headline I read repeatedly over the past few years as I wrote about the state for my next book. Citrus greening, a bacterial pathogen that moves through plants like measles, is taking out this perfect fruit. That oranges are in trouble is not news that would have come to me organically. I learned it by tracing the industry and reading the stories of migrant workers who work in the groves. I suppose that’s telling. Our relationship to fruit has grown more remote as fruit flies on planes and genetic modification disrupts what once were seasonal eating patterns. And as with much of what we eat, fruit poses some serious ethical and environmental questions.
Still, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t relish oranges in the winter. Specifically Florida oranges, because they’re the sweetest and juiciest, though annoyingly thin-skinned. I’m also sentimental about them. Oranges and pecans are the foods I associate with the holidays in Alabama. We’d pick pecans off the ground in the backyard. They were abundant. And we called the nut inside “meat,” which feels right because it’s rich and fatty. The squishy Florida oranges, we stabbed with a candy cane, then sucked fresh orange juice from around the perimeter of the hole it made. Minty and fresh, the juice tasted cool even though the oranges were room temperature. The fruits were dry orbs by the time we were done.
I am generally a highly associative person (which you probably already know if you have read this newsletter). I move through life looking for patterns and repetitions. And I always associate oranges with Christmas in a way that feels even more vivid than nostalgia. And it makes me wonder about our culture, and our inclination to put our heads in the sand about the present environmental crises. We are threatened with losing so much of the Earth’s bounty. Citrus greening is fueled by the climate crisis. And while there are ongoing efforts to combat it, there are competing accounts of how successful those efforts can be. Americans love oranges, but oranges are dying. It reminds me that we are perilously casual about human destruction of the Earth. I know I am: Outside of vague tongue-clucking, head-shaking, and recycling, I don’t do much of anything about it.
I bought a bag of oranges two days ago and relished the familiar feeling of the net under my fingers. I wondered how long this would remain a ritual. How long would I be able to taste a flavor that could bring me back to childhood so easily, and also give me pleasure right now? Will my great-grands know oranges as an accessible, wonderful thing? My grandmother once told me that she had no money to buy Christmas presents for her children one year, and all she could get them were oranges. It broke my heart, but it was also something precious. Oranges are a gift.
Maybe we can foster ways of telling stories of our lives that can help us be better. Maybe it would be easier if, in addition to learning environmental science, we thought of ourselves as stewards of the sweet yet simple parts of our past. Maybe if we used memory as an earth-conscious sensibility, we’d be moved to do more. I won’t be home for Christmas. COVID strikes again. But I’ll take some time to think about how to make a worthwhile resolution between the past and our roles in our future.