The first durian I ever opened cost me a knuckle and forty minutes. I was hacking at the top of the husk like it was a coconut, which is exactly the wrong
A friend in Guadalajara texts me every summer asking where the durian is, and every summer I give him the same disappointing answer with a small piece
A customer once put down a durian at my stand because she saw watermelon in her own basket and remembered something her grandmother told her.
Customers at my stand ask me whether durian is medicine or dessert, and they usually want the answer in one word. I grow Durio zibethinus under glass on
Every few months someone sends me a photo of a durian with a bare, pebbled husk and asks whether China has finally bred the thorns off the king of fruits.
I distinctly remember the first time I hauled a harvest of Durio zibethinus—known affectionately as the King of Fruits—from our groves here in San Diego
You are sitting at a banquet table, staring at a mound of steaming Dungeness crab (Metacarcinus magister) and a platter of creamy, golden Durian (Durio zibethinus).
Have you ever wrestled a porcupine that smells like onions and tastes like heaven? That is the paradox of growing the King of Fruits. Specifically, I want
If you have ever walked into your packing shed and been hit by a smell that combines gym socks, caramelized onions, and turpentine, you know exactly what
Nothing divides a room quite like the King of Fruits. You either sprint toward that sulfur-sweet aroma, or you sprint away from it. Living here in San