There is something deeply satisfying about walking through my orchard in San Diego on a crisp November morning and seeing a tree laden with both delicate
Let’s clear up a misconception right out of the gate: walking past an Arbutus unedo in San Diego without stopping to snack is a missed opportunity.
Living here in San Diego, where the sun beats down on our clay-heavy soil for 300 days a year, I’ve learned that sometimes the best place for a tree isn’
The morning fog hasn’t quite burned off here in San Diego, but the buzzing in my orchard is already deafening. If you walk past the citrus rows and
I still remember the first time a customer walked up to my stall at the Little Italy Mercato, pointed at the potted shrub behind me, and asked, “
There is something magical about walking through my orchard in late November. Most of San Diego is settling down for our mild winter, but one tree is throwing a party.
The first time I saw an Arbutus unedo, or as we locals call it, the Strawberry Tree, I was baffled. Here was a tree growing in a friend’
There is a specific kind of heartbreak that only a farmer knows, and it usually involves standing in front of a tree holding a pair of shears, realizing
Walking out into the orchard on a crisp San Diego morning only to find your prized Arbutus unedo shedding its canopy is a stomach-churning experience.
The distinct perfume of a ripe Feijoa—also known botanically as Acca sellowiana, or colloquially as Pineapple Guava and Guavasteen—is something that stops