Reflections: Art of the Avocado

Avocados, as the “health people” never tire of saying, are good for you. Rare is the article about improved eating habits that doesn’t devote a paragraph or two to waxing ecstatic about the heart-healthy/fat-burning/fiber-packed/antioxidant-rich/cholesterol-crushing/triglyceride-trashing/properties of the not-that-humble avocado. They’re also quite tasty: the accessible superfood! One popular Australian breakfast/brunch dish I miss is a concoction known as an “Avocado Smash,” which you’ll find on the menu of any Melbourne café or breakfast joint worth its salt. It consists of a couple of thick slices of wholegrain or sourdough bread toasted, lightly kissed with Vegemite, then piled with successive layers of smashed avocado, feta cheese, sprouts (sometimes), and a poached egg on top. A nominally healthy way to start the day, an Avocado Smash has the added benefit of being a colorful, messy, savory flavor explosion guaranteed to end up partly down the front of your shirt. How many ‘health’ foods can you say that about?

So, with the spring growing season upon us, a man’s thoughts turn to growing his own avocados. Again. What aspirational avocado-lover hasn’t tried? After all, we live in a semi-tropical climate, the raw materials are easily obtained, and the fact that an avocado tree can in theory be started on one’s windowsill with a jam jar and some toothpicks, make the project seem manageable enough. As the titular head of a houseful of avocado fetishists, one of whom (not me) is a talented gardener, there seem to be plenty of reasons to try. The problem is how hard it is to keep the damn things alive. Many times I’ve had a go at growing avocados from pits. Ignoring the obvious impracticalities (a full-grown avocado tree can be eighty feet tall; temperatures below freezing kill them; a tree grown from pit can take fifteen years to produce fruit, etc. etc.), I follow the simple-sounding instructions to stick four toothpicks into the pit of a store-bought fruit then suspend it in the neck of a water-filled jam jar. Then wait. And wait. If I’m very patient, and if no-one knocks over the jam jar, and if I don’t forget about it and let the water evaporate, and if I ignore the talented gardener wife’s amused condescension at the whole star-crossed enterprise for long enough, after several weeks the pit splits and gradually extends a taproot down into the water. I find this quietly thrilling. Never let anyone tell you life in the country is boring. 

Sadly this is about as far as my avocado-growing endeavor ever gets. Last year was the closest: after six winter weeks on the kitchen windowsill one of my pits had extruded not only a long, white taproot, but also a pale green stalk from which had unfurled two delicate, emerald-green leaves. With visions of an artisanal guacamole empire dancing in my head I transplanted the thing into a flowerpot and took to moving it outside on warm days. Can you guess what happened next? A late winter cold front blew in; I forgot about my delicate charge, and by the time I realized a day or two later a frostbitten stalk was all that was left protruding from my pot. Disconsolate and ignoring the smirking talented gardener, I went back to my store-bought avocados. 

Imagine my delight several months later when my wife, poking about among some abandoned flowerpots said, “That looks like an avocado!” Dumped in a corner and forgotten, my avocado had recovered and put forth a sturdy little sapling festooned with pale green leaves. Judiciously I resumed my ministrations, watering it fastidiously and moving it into and out of the sun. Then, convinced it was looking a bit pale, I decided to fertilize it. “Mm … not sure about that,” said the talented gardener. Within a week it was dead. Obviously this is the fault of the gardener since it was she who pointed out to me that the avocado tree was alive in the first place. 

Still, hope springs eternal and no one can accuse me of not learning from my mistakes. So this year I’m gathering the pits from all our store-bought avocados and throwing them into a damp patch of ground behind the compost bin. Benign neglect, in other words. So long as I studiously ignore them, I fully expect the homemade guacamole to be flowing in as little as fifteen years. Watch this space.