Longform
My longform journalism and brand journalism work has been awarded by the Virginia Press Association, featured in national magazines, news op-eds and higher-education platforms.
I specialize in food & drinks writing, lifestyle and popular science.
A Pudding Quest
Originally appeared in DRAFT Magazine. Oct. 2010.
Sitting in the banquet room of the Three Ways House Hotel in Gloucestershire, England, a few glasses of red wine and a stiff double shot of whiskey under my belt, I'm desperately trying to bring the half-eaten portion of Sticky Toffee Pudding lumped in front of me into focus.
Around the bowl's edges, a Pollock-esque display of syrup, raspberry jam and custard lashings looks like the blown-out leftovers of a head once filled with sugarplum dreams.
This is my fifth helping of pudding in under an hour, and nausea's setting in. Around me, the polite mannerisms of my fellow English pudding eaters have vanished into the saccharine ether. Fork ends bang against tables; heckling ensues. I'm American, from the land of largesse, and little old ladies with delicate accents are eating me under the table.
"After a few pints of custard people get confused," a voice rises out of the clatter. "The first thing people say when they come here is 'What if the pudding runs out?' It never, ever, ever runs out." Cue maniacal laughter. This is the famed Pudding Club, self-proclaimed "Eighth Wonder of the World," and the voice belongs to club chairman Peter Henderson. If I don't focus and finish my gored pudding, it's likely Henderson and his sugar-spiked dessert junkies might toss me out. The night before traveling to southwestern England's bucolic Cotswolds in search of pudding, a region of rolling hills, farms and orchards, I got a rather poignant Facebook message from my uncle. "T'll save you the trip," he wrote. "Open a box, pour it in a bowl and add cold milk. Stir until fully mixed and then refrigerate. I probably just saved you $5,000." On one hand, he's right. There's no shame in embracing Bill Cosby's jiggly treat, but like fictional twerp Gareth Keenan of "The Office," I don't trust the way it moves. I want to know what pudding really is, what I've been missing all the nights I'd satiated my post-dinner appetite with such delicacies as aspartame-jacked popsicles. I want to taste the fabled dessert that was savored by Dickens' lowly Cratchit family, and rudely demanded each year in "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Advice from family duly noted, I touched down in England, stomach empty and sweet tooth primed. First order of business: a few pints with an old friend and a primer on pudding. "English puddings are generally pretty stodgy, unsubtle affairs like so many things on this island: warm ales, pasty faces, thick gravy, comfy pubs, heavy coats, an obsession with offal," my friend tells me. "My only explanation is that in all these instances we are guarding ourselves against the weather. A good pudding-treacle sponge or jam roly poly—is like a raincoat you don't have to remember to take along, Attached at your stomach, hips or face, it's with you for the ride." Pudding's a bizarre concept for a foreigner. There's savory pudding, like the dried-blood black pudding and gelatinous kidney pie, and then there's the sweet variety. I'm here for the sweets. Embedded deep in British gastronomic history, pudding has emerged as a label for just about any dessert, whether it be sweet, tart, bread-based, cold or hot. These desserts could be anywhere, in any shape, any form, but every style, without fail, turns heads like sizzling fajitas. When searching for meaning, it's best to start with the obvious. That's how I found myself standing in the short stone doorway of The Old Original Bakewell Pudding Shop in the conveniently named town of Bakewell, home of the world-famous Bakewell Pudding since the 1880s. According to local lore, this rich, buttery, tart puff pastry came about when a drunken cook botched a huntsman's order for raspberry tart. "Instead of putting jam on the top, she put it on the bottom, and the huntsman liked it," explains Pauline Dinsdale, a pleasant woman nice enough to offer a quick tour around the cramped, low ceiling bak-ery. "But that's all hidden in the mist of time; part of the myth." Today, the shop boasts an output of up to 14,000 puddings each week during peak season, all crafted by one main baker. While it's perhaps the most famous sweet pudding in England, the recipe's a secret to this day, locked away in a safe. It's clear that if I'm going to understand pudding. I'll have to get my hands dirty. I arrive at the Brompton Cookery School, located on a National Trust property in the heart of Shropshire for a hands-on lesson in pud-ding. I'm attempting to make a perfect pear tart, and a very talented, very patient cook named Jane Bennett has agreed to show me how. I crack some eggs, peel some pears and prepare the pastry. As the pieces come together, Bennett, who's standing over my shoulder, admits pudding is steeped in tradition but that there's no rulebook for making it. I must be doing something wrong. "I love making pudding. I've been doing it all my life," she says. "And innovation is definitely allowed." There's a fine line between her innovation and my ineptitude. The pudding was decent, but there was something missing. If I truly want to experience pudding's restorative properties, I'll have to find someone to make it for me—while I watch, drinking a beer. Enter Rob Rees, aka The Cotswold Chef. Rees invites me to his house to demonstrate how to make his Cotswold Bread and Butter Pudding. He fires up the oven as I take a seat in the kitchen with a pint of local Wickwar Station Porter. "I could do some poncey stuff with lots of dribbles, and all kinds of things, but that's not what you want from pudding," he explains. "Every Sunday, we're always doing pudding here. It's the one time for the kids that I allow them to have sugar." More than a chef, Rees is a strong proponent of the Slow Food movement, and heavily celebrated in this farming region. I watch as he seamlessly cracks local eggs, portions out local milk and butter and performs some version of wizardry that transforms this dish into a buttery, aromatic treasure. Its rich bread-butter-sugar mix coats the tongue while a dash of orange zest perks the taste buds. As I lose myself in the pudding-porter combo, I begin to understand the comfort this treat offers. Its thickness sticks to the ribs, and its sweetness forces a smile. It elevates the down times and punctuates the good. Confident in my newfound understanding, I retreat from the Cotswold Chef's hillside home to pose as a pudding connoisseur with the best: The Pudding Club. There's a bit of pageantry at the Pudding Club "meetings" known as the Parade of Pudding. After members and guests filter into the ballroom and find their tables, the charismatic, hilariously charming Peter Henderson begins the royal announcement of puddings, while waiters heave large bowls of dessert through a whooping, roar-ing, table thumping crowd. It's electric, but there are rules. Members can come up to the pudding buffet as many times as they wish, but only when their table is invited. Members are only allowed one pudding in their bowl at a time. And, finally, if you don't finish what's in your bowl, you can't move on to the next round. And so, here I am, staring at that half-eaten bowl of Sticky Toffee Pudding in front of me while images of previous helpings flood my mind: Squidgy Chocolate & Nut, Jam Roly Poly, Rhubarb Trifle, Ginger Syrup. Henderson motions for our table's sixth round, so I shove the last spoonfuls of the spongy, rich toffee dessert in my mouth and waddle over to the next helping, Bread and Butter. "If you want to go for it, if you think you're hard enough, then come on," laughs Henderson. "One young man ate 23 puddings. Seven was just a snack." As the hours that night melted away like chocolate under a warm lashing of custard, I made my way through the seven-pudding challenge, and then some more. After a final glass of wine I struck out for a walk in the crisp, cool night, hoping to burn some sugar before passing out in bed. Trudging along the wet, muddy paths that circumnavigate the bordering farmland, I laughed as I remembered my friend's comment. Despite the chilly air, my stomach was warm and a brush of sugar sweetness coated my smile. Pudding— whatever form you find it in—is comfort, not unlike a raincoat you carry with you at all times.
Extreme Beer Collectors
Anything goes in the "hunt to swill" world of rare beer collecting.
Originally appeared in DRAFT Magazine. Oct. 2013.
Last November, a rare event occurred in Phoenix: Bottles from Belgium's Cantillon brewery, which brews some of the best lambics in the world, were delivered to select shops for the first time in four years.
Leading up to the release, Tony Piccini, owner of Pitcher of Nectar Distributing and the guy responsible for bringing in the elusive beer, tried
to keep the news quiet, but when a staffer mentioned it to a local beer drinker, all hell broke loose. A barrage of phone calls, texts and Facebook inquiries flooded the channels. On delivery day, Piccini arrived at the first store and was greeted by Dakine Beckman, a beer fanatic who waited all morning for the truck to arrive. Piccini made the drop, got back in his truck and carried on to the next shop. En route, he received a text from Beckman. Piccini checked his mirror and there was Beckman, following in his car. This carried on for the next few stops, with Beckman buying as many of the rare lambics as he was allotted at each store. Piccini calls it the most extreme thing he’s seen-but for Beckman and other collectors, it's just a solution. And it's not just about scoring hard-to-get releases: Notoriety, popularity and the reputation of being the guy who can snatch up the world's greatest beers are all at stake. The lengths beer hunters go to land coveted releases surfaced in 2008, when a RateBeer.com user from Missouri admitted that he hired people-prostitutes, as legend has it-through Craigslist to stand in line for Captain Lawrence Cuvee de Castleton at the New York brewery. The same user admitted to hiring "mules" for Portsmouth Kate the Great and limited releases at The Lost Abbey and AleSmith in California. The mule method was a beer collecting game-changer. For some, it spawned an "obtain by any means necessary" ethos; for others, it was unforgivable, especially after another user discovered the Missouri hunter intended to sell bottles on eBay for a profit. "Five years ago, nobody was profiting from this," remembers Beckman, who doesn't sell beer online, but is a prolific trader. "You want this Dark Lord? No problem, send me $14 of the same style of beer. It happens now, but it's not like it was. It's hard to give away something you know is worth $300 to $400. EBay banned beer listings in 2012, but the black market thrives on sites like Craigslist and MyBeerCollectibles.com. Though, flipping rare beer for profit isn't really the crux of the issue for beer enthusiasts. The argument is simple: If someone pays a guy to stand in line for a beer, people behind the mule miss out. Line padding (usually with friends or trading partners) is spreading, as are its critics; it's even a banned topic on BeerAdvocate.com threads. Breweries try to prevent it; The Lost Abbey mandated that anyone who bought its 2012 limited Track Series beers had to consume them at the San Diego brewery so they wouldn't become commodities. "It's flattering to know that in our short existence we have managed to produce some whales and even white whales for the über beer consumer," says The Lost Abbey co-founder Tomme Arthur. "It isn't a stated goal of ours to create such hype, but it's inevitable that killer beers released in small allotments will drive up the value." Even so, brewers like Arthur want their beer to be enjoyed and shared, not snatched up and sold. The value for the beer collector who isn't stamping an inflated price tag on rare bottles is less tangible: These guys may not brew the beer, but they hold the keys to consuming it. "A lot of people think, 'That jerk got four of those," says Tim Weable, another Phoenix beer collector. "But chances are, that jerk is going to be at the next tasting, sharing it with people who couldn't afford to get it initially." Weable's fairly modest about his 400-bottle collection; he considers himself a casual collec-tor, not a whale hunter. Still, as he describes how he and Beckman are different, he highlights their similarities. Both have established national networks of mules and trading partners. As we're talking, Weable's simultaneously emailing and IMing with guys in Oklahoma and Florida about potential trades, a process that consumes about two hours of his day. If two hours a day is casual, Beckman is black tie, hunting for whales to add to the 500-beer collection he keeps in a walk-in closet (his 500 beer glasses have been relegated to the garage). Even serious beer geeks would have to Google some of his rarities. As a trader, he's a legend on RateBeer.com—a guy who'll toss in four extra bottles when shipping a trade, just for the heck of it. And he regularly hosts tasting parties on his driveway, where guests can pretty much sip whatever they like from his hoard. Only 20 to 25 bottles-like a Cantillon Don Quijote he values at $1,200-are off limits. Beckman and Weable aren't anomalies. Hayden McCall, a collector near Philadelphia, often participates in "beer it forward" threads, where users try to one-up previous trades by including more beer. But when it comes to mul-ing, he's mythical: Earlier this year, McCall rented a Chevy Tahoe, took orders from a dozen locals and drove to Vermont. A few days later he returned with more than $3,000 in beer, including 24 cases of The Alchemist Heady Topper, and 90 growlers and 40 bottles from Hill Farmstead Brewery. None of it was for him. "Some people said, 'Hayden was the reason I went up [to Hill Farmstead) and they were all out, but they don't realize how many people are getting all that beer I bought," reasons McCall. "At the end of the day, there's still good beer left in Vermont." Like Beckman and Weable, McCall's beer fanaticism transcends the beer itself. Their methods leave some casualties-mainly, those who line up behind them-but to these collec-tors, the rewards far outweigh the criticism. "If I have 120 bottles, that's 120 opportunities to be in good company with people," explains McCall. "Every one of those represents a moment I'll be spending with my friends. The idea of drinking a bottle by myself and merely telling my friends about it is unappealing."
A New State of Beer
The race to create the next popular beer style—a wholly American beer—is under way.
Originally appeared in DRAFT Magazine. April. 2013.
For the past 20 years, Russ Klisch has had a conversation lodged in the recesses of his memory. At a Craft Brewers Conference dinner in the 1990s, the Lakefront Brewery president overheard an American brewer questioning a visiting Belgian brewing veteran ad nauseam about his craft.
Exhausted with the barrage of queries, the Belgian brewer finally put an end to the conversation with an abrupt, dismissive, "Why don't you just find your own local ingredients and brew with them?" Klisch took note.
"You can walk into any liquor store in the United States, and every beer is brewed with yeast originally grown in Europe," he points out.
In a sense, it's true. At its core, U.S. craft beer is essentially an extension or amalgamation of European brewing styles. We've pushed the envelope with new hop flavors and bitter-ing levels, but the imperial IPA still owes its existence to the English. The fruited saison? That's still Belgian. We romanticize the origins of centuries-old English IPAs on the high seas and pious monks silently crafting abbey ales, but in 200 years' time, what story will drinkers tell about the American beer style? Actually: What is American beer, anyway? Klisch and a growing number of brewers are beginning to answer that question. It all begins with yeast. Back in 2011, during the Craft Brewers Conference in San Francisco, I attended a panel discussion featuring Dogfish Head's Sam Calagione. During the talk, Calagione broke off on a tangent about the creation of native American beers-that is, brews constructed from locally grown ingredi-ents, including yeast, which sets them apart from any previous existing beer style. It wasn't a far-out idea: A year prior, both Colorado's Odell and Texas' Jester King released small-batch beers fermented with local yeast captured in their respective backyards. Calagione wrapped up with a pretty inspired wish: to one day see a native beer festival with each state represented. Later that year, Dogfish Head released its first version of D.N.A. (short for Delaware Native Ale), which was made entirely from ingredients grown in the First State. He even managed to get the governor to declare the yeast, captured on a local farm, the honorary state strain. As if on cue, that year, the Brewers Association added the Indigenous Beer category to the Great American Beer Festival competition, which includes "beers made wholly unique by use of multiple local ingredients and/or techniques, with the resulting beer being highly representative of location." Whether coincidence or kismet, the idea of native beer was brewing. Today, it's spreading. When I first emailed Bryan Greenhagen of Boston's Mystic Brewing about his Vinland Series, a still-in-progress line of beers that showcase wild yeast from each New England state, he replied, "Have you found anyone else using isolated yeast?" It was a fair ques-tion: Despite a growing number of native yeast beers, microbiology doesn't seem to inspire a lot of press. But that doesn't mean it isn't interesting. Case in point: Vinland One. For the series' first release, Greenhagen isolated a yeast strain from a Massachusetts plum he bought at a local farmers market. Called Winnie, the wild yeast imparts plum, mango and touches of spice to the saison base, giving it character more akin to wine. Technically. One isn't an ale or lager; it's something unique. Greenhagen's also working on developing yeast cultures from blueberries in Maine for Vinland Two, slated for release this September, and berries and grapes from a family farm in Vermont. While the lack of local ingredients suited for his recipes (mainly noble hops) prevents him from brewing' complete native beer, his use of local, wild yeast makes Vinland exclusive to his region. "Biodiversity can help us make our own unique beer," he says. "Even though we work within the Belgian tradition, how can we bring that back to make things that are actually distinctive and, in some cases, beer you couldn't make anywhere else?" Halfway across the country in Milwaukee, Klisch finally exercised that long-remembered exchange between the two brewers when Lakefront released Wisconsinite, made solely with ingredients grown in the Badger State. To formulate the beer, he teamed up with Jeremy King of Northern Brewer, who has a Ph.D. in biochemistry, to isolate a strain of yeast off of crushed Wisconsin- grown grain. They sent the culture to Wyeast Laboratories, a commercial brewing yeast outfit, for development. When their yeast returned, they started brewing. As it turned out, the yeast showcased clove and hints of banana-common flavors of the classic hefeweizen ale yeast. Given Wisconsin's strong German heritage, Klisch was pleasantly surprised, so he sourced local malted barley, wheat and hops to brew an American weissbier, the brewery's new spring seasonal. Klisch understood that to further the discussion of native ales-and just as important, the new, indigenous strain of brewing yeast he helped discover-he couldn't keep the yeast under lock and key. He released the Wisconsin strain to both Wyeast and Northern Brewer so professionals and homebrewers could use it in new recipes—a pretty important first step toward proliferating a new American style of beer. "[Yeast) is the next frontier of craft brew-ing," Klisch says. "That's where all the previous styles came from, just someone brewing with wild yeast. There are only so many malts and hops to play around with; yeast is going to be the next big thing." But just how plausible is the success of these native beers? According to both Greenhagen and Klisch, the growing interest in local consumption (i.e., the locavore movement) means there's already a built-in demand: "People are drawn to local ingredients, and we're trying to do that with beer," says Greenhagen. "And in culinary terms, people are looking for variety and more interesting beers." But in terms of the big picture-that "what story will they tell in 200 years?" question— native beers have the potential to define the American craft beer industry's legacy. The array of yet-to-be-cultivated yeast strains floating past our windows could even mark new, distinct American brewing regions, not unlike Belgium's Senne River Valley, which became famous for its spontaneously fermented lambics. The rub? Isolating those yeasts isn't easy. For Vinland One, Greenhagen brewed roughly 100 batches of beer with individual yeast strains-most to disastrous results-before hitting on the right one. Still, companies like Wyeast are simplifying the process: Jess Caudill, a Wyeast micro-biologist, says for $150, the company will analyze a sample and isolate any yeast strains viable for brewing. Breweries like Mystic, Lakefront and Virginia's Lost Rhino, which released a native yeast beer called Wild Farmwell Wheat last fall, use those labs or ones they build themselves to propagate the yeast they use to invent new beers. And Dogfish Head continues to release D.N.A. annually. It seems we're inching toward the next popular beer style, one that's completely, utterly American. "If you look around the world at historic styles, what we don't have is that sort of fine development of a style; we've got a ways to go," notes Greenhagen. He says the brewery that develops the next successful native ale will certainly survive the shake-out of a potentially saturated industry. "We all shouldn't be trying to make the perfect pale ale."
Reintroducing Gray Wolves into Colorado
Originally appeared in Colorado State University's The Source. Oct. 2020.
After a close race, Colorado passed Proposition 114, allowing the reintroduction of gray wolves into the state. While there are myriad issues, perspectives and stakeholders surrounding this topic, one College of Agricultural Sciences professor has been researching the economic impact it could have on the state, including its ranchers.
Dana Hoag, a professor in the Department of Agricultural and Resource Economics, who focuses on the intersection of agriculture and the environment, has worked collaboratively with the Warner College of Natural Resources as a member of The Center for Human-Carnivore Coexistence to help inform economic models, should the measure pass.
“[Wolves] are going to naturally colonize here sooner or later,” says Hoag. “This ballot initiative is going to put them on the map faster. The bottom line is that for a lot of ranchers, they feel like [the initiative] is introducing a dangerous pest.”
Hoag feels that most ranchers probably understand why people in Colorado want to see wolves returned. However, the benefits of reintroducing wolves are distributed widely but measure small per person, while the cost is distributed very narrowly but measures quite large, specifically for Colorado ranchers who fear wolves will prey on their livestock. While arguments have been made that compensation for livestock killed by wolves should suffice, Hoag argues it’s more complex than that. “’The state or private groups will just pay for the killed animals, what’s the big deal?’,” says Hoag. “Well, it is a big deal to many. If you wanted that cow or calf sold, you would have sold it. If it’s left in the field, you’re going to gain more value. Studies have shown that wolf-related stress in cows could cause a downturn in pregnancies, as well as an average loss of 22 pounds in calves intended for market. So you lose the value you could have gained. Many ranchers feel like wolves could really hurt them.” To get a better sense for how ranchers and wolves can coexist, Hoag has spent time studying programs in several western states that have been dealing with coexistence for nearly 25 years. This has provided insight into how Colorado can use revenue from reintroduction to support the state’s ranchers, and how ranchers can minimize losses. According to Hoag, the societal value of wolves boils down to recognizing four economic values: Consumptive, which is revenue surrounding hunting wolves, including hunting licenses, travel and lodging (Montana brings in roughly $400,000 annually in license fees alone). Non-consumptive, which is tourism to see wolves, which can be substantive. Option, which is a willingness to pay an amount to ensure that one day you might get to see a wolf. Existence value, which is wanting to know that wolves are there, regardless of any intention to see them. Hoag roughly estimates that the state could see more than 10 times more value in the benefits, compared to the costs in livestock damages. “Compensation has several layers but the bottom line is that if society is going to increase wolf populations, ranchers are going to bear the main cost,” says Hoag. “Perhaps they should be compensated.” Looking at compensation packages in other states Hoag has studied compensation plans across Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, Washington and Oregon, which all very widely. For instance, Wyoming will pay a ratio of seven-to-one, meaning if a rancher can prove a wolf killed a calf, the state will pay seven times the value (market price of the animal), assuming the wolf also killed an additional six. At the end of the season, when ranchers bring their herd back and run a headcount, they pay back the difference if overpaid. Washington’s program offers a two-to-one compensation package, and Montana offers one-to-one. “It’s different in every state and has a lot of nuances,” says Hoag. For example, funding these programs can be difficult because the value of wolves is not always translated into dollars that can be passed through for compensation programs. “But the important thing here is to understand that cooperating with the state to tolerate a healthy wolf population produces a giant benefit that can be used to compensate livestock producers for the disproportionate impact on their businesses. What we can do as a college of agriculture is help ranchers with prevention and compensation?” While Hoag is working on compensation research, he’s also working with the Warner College of Natural Resources to price out prevention research and its efficacy. “As an economist, if I ask ‘what are our options for prevention?,’ the natural scientists tell me what the costs are and I help put a dollar number on them,” says Hoag. “I would look at prevention methods and the cost and maybe make an estimate of how many livestock deaths would be prevented, and then I put a dollar number on that. It’s the same with compensation.” Whether or not the ballot initiative had passed, Hoag’s work on this topic would have been far from over, as he sees the growth of wolves in Colorado as an inevitability. “It’s a matter of time,” says Hoag. “I really appreciate where the ranchers are coming from. It feels awful when someone says they’re going to introduce a pack of wolves right next to your sheep. I want to work with ranchers to get information translated into how they can sustain their ranch – how to make a sustainable profit when dealing with wolves.”
Improving the World’s ‘Best’ Peach
Originally appeared in Colorado State University's The Source. July. 2020.
If you look forward to the fruit stands of Palisade peaches every summer, you know that the extremely aromatic, sweet and succulent treats are worth the wait. What you may not know is that the wait is quantifiably justified: Colorado-grown peaches are ranked first in the country when it comes to value of the product per-pound, making them the most expensive peaches in the world.
The College of Agricultural Sciences’ Ioannis Minas, a pomologist and assistant professor within the Department of Horticulture and Landscape Architecture, is at the forefront of Colorado peach development. Since arriving at CSU in 2015, he has worked to make the crops more resilient, efficient, productive and, of course, tastier. But given the unique environment peach growers work with in the Rocky Mountain region, that mission comes with its challenges. “Land that is suitable for fruit production is very limited and demand for Colorado peaches across the country is very high, so in order to expand the industry, there’s no way to expand into new land,” said Minas, who is the leading peach rootstock researcher in the country. “We are trying to find rootstocks that can fit into modern stone fruit production for high-density plantings to create efficiency in production, to lower cost of labor, and produce more in the same area of production.” Aside from limited land, Colorado peach growers are also faced with Cytospora canker, an opportunistic pathogen that accounts for 20-percent of annual crop production loss, and the potential for extreme freezing events, which hit this industry earlier this Spring and will have a detrimental impact on this season’s crop. Suffice to say, Minas deals with multiple tiers of challenges in his research. Much of his research distills down into three factors: Rootstock, cold hardiness and how orchard factors impact quality. “Rootstock is the most important aspect of modern fruit production,” said Minas. “It underlines many aspects of production. And once planted, you can’t remove it without having to rip out the entire crop, so the selection of root stock is very critical.” In 2017, Minas was elected to serve as the project coordinator for the North Central Regional Multistate Project (NC140) regional rootstock research trials for peaches across North America. The NC140 scientific coordination team is a de facto international leader for temperate zone tree fruit rootstock science. Minas’ Pomology program includes close outreach collaboration with the tree fruit industry to coordinate the applied research part of the Cytospora canker management program in collaboration with Jane Stewart of the Department of Agricultural Biology. According to Minas, one of the trickier aspects of rootstock research and implementation in the orchard is that older rootstocks create and maintain their own microbiome. This can be problematic when introducing new plants into an orchard with an established microbiome of 20 or more years. This can prevent growers from establishing new crops, but rootstock research can provide solutions. “I think this research combines good science, but also very applied research for the industry,” says Minas. “It’s very much-needed information. We are designing the next generation peach orchard. The potential is 2,000 trees per hectare with the potential of about 40 tons per-acre, which is three times more than what growers are producing.” Cold hardiness and orchard factors Of course, being a Rocky Mountain state, Colorado also has to deal with extreme freezing events. For instance, Minas and his team have concluded that a detrimental freezing event occurs when the temperature drops below 25-degrees Fahrenheit for more than 30 minutes. This past April, Colorado peach crops were exposed to almost two hours of temperatures below 25, which obliterated an estimated 90-percent of crops. One solution to counter that, according to Minas, is researching late-blooming varieties, but with a short growing season, there’s a balance at play. “We are doing a lot of research to identify cultivars that are more resilient,” said Minas. “We also can sense with very high precision the freezing of buds. So, we can estimate lethal temperatures that are critical for the growers to make frost-controlled decisions.” While rootstock and cold hardiness research is critical to the production of peaches, there are many other orchard factors that impact fruit quality. Other factors are myriad, including cropping systems, draining systems, canopy architecture, fertilization, irrigation, cultivars—the list goes on. “We want to know how to best manage the orchard in order to produce the highest-quality fruit in order to keep the Colorado peach industry’s position in the market,” said Minas. Minas’ Pomology Program has developed highly accurate models, so with a single scan of fruit, they can predict maturity status, sugar content, and more. Essentially, they can scan entire canopies and get data sets on how different pre-harvest factors impact quality. All of this builds up to the goals previously mentioned: Increase production of delicious Colorado peaches. “Colorado peaches are the most expensive in the world because of their superior quality that consumers are able to identify—coloration, aroma and sugars,” said Minas. “We want to make sure that all these new introductions in order to improve productivity will not negatively affect current quality—or maybe they’ll even improve the quality.” To learn more about Minas’ Pomology Program and its research, visit its landing page here.