Hail the satsuma – A Wee Bleether

Meteorologists tell us October is Louisiana’s greatest month because, on paper, the weather is never better.

I say it’s the greatest month of the year because any day now I’m going to rip open the waxy red mesh on the season’s first bag of Louisiana satsumas. I’ll choose one at random, poke an index finger into the dimple that was the stem, tear off that gloriously loose skin and tease away dangling bits of pith. Then I’m going to plunge my teeth into the impossibly sweet yet tangy flesh of Louisiana’s greatest fruit.

That’s right, the greatest. I said it. Satsuma is king.

This month they’ll start showing up at produce markets, farmer’s markets and any local grocery store worthy of calling Baton Rouge home.

Of course, in reality the Louisiana satsuma is a humble fruit. Fewer in number than the popular seedless navel orange, and without a top-tier festival to honor the harvest, satsumas are the overlooked delicacy in our state’s breadbasket.

Their arrival is like reuniting with old, familiar friends. In a world where we can stroll into a modern supermarket and pluck any number of exotic fruits from bountiful shelves 365 days a year, satsumas remain a treat unique to both time and place.

I’d put up a ripe Louisiana satsuma against any fruit you can find. Maybe the banana has it beaten when it comes to perfect natural packaging. And of course, there’s no denying that certain exotic fruits dazzle the senses—mangoes, fresh pineapples and even ripe avocados come to mind. But those are from far away.

Other states grow them, but nowhere does the satsuma seem to thrive like here. Made juicy by our drenching summer downpours and nourished by the blackjack soil of Terrebonne and Lafourche and Plaquemines parishes, satsumas burst with flavor.

Yet they are by no means the prettiest belles at the produce ball. Come to think of it, they’re sort of ugly. They’re not like California and Florida citrus, perfect in their uniformity, stacked like plastic pyramids on supermarket shelves. Born of industrial production methods and genetic meddling, their shiny shells promise perfection but deliver mediocrity.

Satsumas, on the other hand, are bumpy, uneven, and partially green or yellow. They remind me of old-fashioned Creole tomatoes: hidden under all that ugly is a sweet, delightful surprise.

There’s no denying that summer figs are sublime, and for a couple of weeks in July they turn Louisiana yards into syrupy gardens of Eden. But the fig is fleeting, and oh-so vulnerable—a mere afternoon rain can wash away its ripe flavor.

Pontchatoula strawberries also may give satsumas a run for their state money, but for me they raise a troubling question: when, exactly, did strawberries balloon to the size of Roma tomatoes? I’ve got to slice each berry three or four times just for my kids to eat it with a spoon. I remember strawberries from my childhood as compact little flavor bombs, whose intense tartness came to life with a sprinkle of sugar and a dollop of fresh cream.

Satsumas don’t need sugar or cream or long-haul shipping or anything else.

To relish Louisiana’s most fantastic fruit, one really needs nothing more than opposable thumbs and a paper towel to sop up the juice.