I cut into my first cherimoya on a warm afternoon in San Diego and hesitated at the green, scaly exterior. The flesh looked inviting, yet the skin felt
I still remember the first time a market vendor in San Diego handed me a fruit labeled custard apple. It looked similar to the cherimoyas I already grew
I planted my first cherimoya seeds in San Diego twelve years ago after scooping them from a soft fruit bought at a local market. The seeds sat in a warm
I taste cherimoya from the tree and from the packing shed every harvest, and the flavor is the reason the fruit still earns space on the farm.
I have lost young trees to cold and watched mature ones shrug off brief frost, so hardiness is not an abstract number on a chart. Annona cherimola, the
I grow cherimoya and have tasted sitafal side by side for years, so the differences are practical rather than theoretical. Annona cherimola, the cherimoya
I eat cherimoya several times a week in season and watch customers react to both the flavor and the safety rules. Annona cherimola, the cherimoya or custard
I prepare cherimoya several times a week during the season, both for the table and for customers who ask how to handle the fruit once they get it home.
I grow cherimoya and have tasted sitafal side by side for years, so the differences are practical rather than theoretical. Annona cherimola, the cherimoya
I grow both cherimoya and a few trial soursop trees on the same San Diego property, so the comparison is not abstract. Annona cherimola, the cherimoya