The Orange Trees of Titusville

Ever seen an orange tree?

Deceptively colorful oranges are
sliced and ready for juicing. Note
the difference in appearance from
their store-bought cousins. 

S. Kramer, Photo

I can’t speak for all Northwesterners, but for me, orange trees feel almost mythological. You know they must exist--oranges are a fruit after all and fruit grow on trees--but if you live in Portland, or Montana, or wherever, and never leave, you are almost certain to never see one in person. Our climate is not fit for growing citrus (yet palms survive here in small numbers, so go figure). The closest thing to an orange tree you ever see are the leaves still on the fruits when you buy them, or that line from CSN’s song Guiniverre, or romantic paintings of orchards in a museum. I guess what I’m getting at, is that unless you head south, you will never likely never walk up to a tree and pluck an orange. I admit that I tend to get excited about mundane things, but I was thrilled to see what I thought was an ordinary orange tree.

The trees are unavoidable around Titusville, Florida. I haven’t done extensive research as to why: perhaps they grew from seeds thrown over fences, perhaps the city is built on old orange groves. Whatever the reason, they’re everywhere, and they aren’t just restricted to gardens. That is, in fact, the place you are least likely to see them. If you want to find an Orange tree in Titusville, you need to look in the exact middle of a forest of live oaks, palms, and Spanish moss. Or try at the edge of a campground, or perimeter fences at airports. They are inescapable, popping up in what seem to be the most bizarre of places, holding out their delicious looking brilliant orange fruit like the tree in the Garden of Eden.

Of course the temptation to at least try one was great, but I am a nervous person, hesitant to eat fruit I am unfamiliar with. My Dad, however, was more confident, and it was he who suggested we juice a few of them. What could possibly go wrong? We rigged up an orange picker from a broomstick and spoon and managed to land about ten of them. Then came the moment of truth.

A few things should have tipped me off that something wasn’t quite right. The first clue was the local man walking his dog who warned us that they weren’t what they seemed. (We ignored him.) The second clue was the peculiar pale yellow center more like a grapefruit than an orange, and the third was the taste. 

It tasted...different. 

It still tasted like an orange to a certain degree: beneath the pucker-inducing bitterness, the flavor of orange juice could clearly be detected. The raw juice, however, made grapefruit taste like candy, and after adding enough sugar to keep a kindergartener awake for days, the juice was palatable... and tasty with rum, though friends say I should have tried Tequila. I may give that a shot next time. Either way, it made for a good cocktail, or without alcohol as some sort of strange lemonade. I would even tentatively recommend it, just be ready for the bellyaches.

All experimentation aside, the conclusion was inescapable: what we found were not the oranges of the store shelve: sweet and juicy, grafted clones of carefully bred to the tastes of their human masters. In Oregon, fruit grows wild too: pears, apples, cherries, plums. Most of these, however are quite palatable, or look vastly different from their grocery store cousins. The orange trees of Titusville are wild runaways, pungent and discolored. It’s bright rind masquerading to foolish visitors as the tree they think they knew. -KP

 28˚30' 11"N, 80˚46'57"W

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