WRITTEN BY LINDSEY KESEL
RECIPE COURTESY OF CHRISTINA TOSI, CHEF/FOUNDER & OWNER OF MILK BAR
PHOTOGRAPHY COURTESY OF MILK BAR

The big day is here! That magical marker that signals another journey around the sun, another year older and wiser. Twenty-four hours to enjoy the spotlight, hopefully culminating in some type of shindig. As much as we love the attention that goes along with being the guest of honor, we know there’s something else drawing our friends and family away from their comfortable couches and out the door to toast our existence: it’s the unsung hero of the birthday party, our delicious sidekick — the beloved birthday cake.

Whether it’s chocolate with fudge frosting, vanilla with buttercream, angel food or black forest, no birthday party is complete without a sweet, scrumptious cake. Add candles, a catchy song and a few scoops of ice cream and you’re guaranteed a good time. Though birthdays and cakes seem like such a natural pairing to us today, there are a few different theories on just how this tradition started.

The ancient Egyptians are credited with calling out a person’s arrival date into the world as cause for annual celebration, but rumor has it the Greeks added a dessert to the mix; they made cakes in the shape of a moon to honor the birth of Artemis, the Greek moon goddess, complete with lit candles inside to mimic the moon’s glow. Some say the world’s first mortal-dedicated birthday cake came out of a German oven sometime in the Middle Ages, and that a handful of German bakeries were responsible for spreading the ritual far and wide when they marketed cakes for birthdays, instead of just weddings as was the standard. In the 1700s, bread-like bundles were served at German Kinderfests, grand festivals held for young birthday boys and girls. The ancient Romans also are said to have had a habit of mixing up flour, nuts and honey to churn out celebratory circles for special birthday occasions.

Luckily for us, these early versions of the birthday cake eventually evolved into more sugary, decadent desserts, involving multiple layers, decorative writing, icing decorations and edible ornaments like fruit and candy. For a time, such fancy delights only graced the tables of the wealthy elite, but thanks to Europe’s Industrial Revolution, cakes eventually became a staple in homes of all social classes.

No matter how the birthday cake came to be, the custom has ignited similar offshoot traditions all over the world: In Russia, you might enjoy a birthday pie, or in Holland, birthday pancakes. During Australian birthdays, partygoers feast on buttered bread covered in sprinkles. And if you’re attending a fête in Great Britain, be sure to take small bites and chew slowly, since tiny treasures are often baked into the cakes.

And what about the practice of blowing out the candles atop a birthday cake? Stories abound of cultures in centuries past where candle blowing served as an avenue for making dreams come true. As the birthday boy’s breath extinguished the flame, the smoke carried his silent hopes and prayers skyward to the divine dream makers in the heavens.

Happy 12th Birthday edible Hawaiian Islands! Make a wish!

BIRTHDAY CAKE

The rise, demise, and comeback story of the Hawaiian pineapple

WRITTEN BY SARAH SCHULTZ

From upside-down cakes to poolside piña coladas, you can get your pineapple fix just about anytime, anywhere (though the jury’s still out on if it belongs on pizza). Fresh pineapple, however, is harder to come by.

It takes about 18-24 months for one to reach maturity, and once picked, the fruit won’t continue to ripen. It’s neither a pine nor an apple, but several berries fused together around a single core. And like money, it doesn’t grow on trees, but on spiky tropical bushes that bear one fruit at a time. Pineapples are grown by propagation, and a common way to propagate is cutting off the crown and planting it in the soil.

Hailing from South America, the first pineapple documented on the islands was in 1813, when botanist Don Francisco de Paula Marin wrote in his diary: “This day I planted pineapples and an orange tree.” Canned and fresh pineapple production and sales experienced radical growth on the islands during the 20th century, under the watch of big players like Dole, Del Monte, and Maui Land & Pineapple Company. Since the late 1980s and into the 21st century, canneries have closed and companies have left the islands for cheaper, quicker, and less regulated production. Still a declining export, the industry now relies on local demand, and its supply lies largely in the hands of smaller farms.

THE DOLE ENTERPRISE

Years after Marin’s poignant diary entry, in 1894, Queen Liliuokalani was overthrown by her opposition. This was led by a man named Sanford Ballard Dole, who would later become the first governor of the Territory of Hawaii after its annexation by the United States government. While Sanford played a pivotal role in the downfall of the last Hawaiian dynasty, it’s his cousin (once removed) James who’s known today as the “Pineapple King.”

A household name nationwide, the Dole Food Company made its way into our hearts, homes, and school lunch boxes by way of Hawaii. James Drummond Dole, a Harvard-educated agriculturalist, came to Oahu in 1899 and starting experimenting with various tropical crops. He landed on the pineapple business, and, eventually outgrowing his land on Oahu, looked to a neighboring island.

The island of Lanai has only one town; a small one that boasts a big name. Lanai City was built back in the 1920s to house Dole employees who came to work in the then-bustling pineapple fields. In 1922, James shelled out $1.1 million for the vast majority of Lanai’s acreage, an incredible amount at the time. He plowed his way through the land to create a plantation that would come to produce 75% of the world’s pineapples, thus earning its nickname, the “Pineapple Isle.” All pineapple production was eventually halted in 1992.

While no longer commercially grown on Lanai, the island still pays homage to the formerly industrious fruit at its Pineapple Festival every year. Returning to its roots on Oahu, a new Dole Plantation opened to the public in 1989, and with over 1 million annual guests, it primarily profits from tours and attractions, but it still grows pineapple commercially on over two acres. The majority of Dole pineapples sold on the mainland today are imported from Latin America.

THE COMEBACK KID

About nine miles west of Lanai, Maui proved itself a gold mine for pineapples, too. Since the early 1900s, pineapple production has been integral to the island’s economic and agricultural landscapes. Most notably, Maui Land & Pineapple Company— or Maui Pine, for short—ran a lucrative operation there for over 75 years, until they closed their doors in 2007. Maui is also home to a seed bank that has all 37 varieties of pineapple known to the world.

Determined to keep production on the island, former Maui Pine employees bought the assets needed to keep the business intact, but downsized drastically. They were able to maintain a trusted product under a new “local-first” formula, and relaunched in 2010 under the name Maui Gold Pineapple Company.

Sweet with some tang, and bright gold in color, the Maui Gold® pineapple made its public debut in 2005, after 17 years of experimental planting. Maui Gold Pineapple Company’s name celebrates the variety developed by their predecessors, and is the only pineapple it cultivates.

From mom-and-pop restaurants and other small businesses to local households, Maui reaps what it sows: Half of all the Maui Gold pineapple grown is consumed right on the island. Just up the road from the farm, Hali’imaile Distilling Company uses the fruit in their famous Pau Vodka. (As of 2018, Maui Gold Pineapple Company and Hali’imaile Distilling Company operate under the same parent company, The LeVecke Corporation.) Wine lovers can sip sparkling pineapple wine at nearby MauiWine, the island’s only winery, or you can relish in the taste with sweet & spicy pineapple spears from Maui Preserved. For a fully immersive experience, book an excursion into the world of Maui Gold with Maui Pineapple Tours.

Even with its prime growing conditions and farmland, Hawaii imports 85% or more of its food from the mainland and beyond. However, by law, pineapples cannot be imported. And without the presence of big agriculture, this leaves the local market wide open for smaller operations like Maui Gold, and specialized family-run farms.

NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK

Enter White Sugarloaf and Meli Kalima pineapples. Alongside Maui Gold, a new generation of farms across the archipelago are putting Hawaiian pineapples back on the map. Small in scale, but mighty in passion, a business of “craft” pineapple is emerging.

The origins aren’t known for sure, but the White Sugarloaf (named after the loaf-like way refined sugar was sold at the time of its discovery) is thought to be a naturally occurring variant of its golden counterpart. The production of this variety has remained within a small circle of growers on the islands, and one such grower can be found on Kauai’s Moloa’a peninsula.

Jude Huber and her husband Paul have spent the better part of two decades growing Kauai Sugarloaf white pineapples on Hawaii’s northernmost island. A small-batch operation of sorts, they grow and handpick over 350,000 Sugarloaf pineapple plants on 38 acres of land. (For reference, Dole’s Lanai plantation had around 16,000 acres.) The Huber family has helped Kauai stake its claim to pineapple fame with a noteworthy fruit and an exclusive dairy- and sugar-free treat, Paulie’s Pineapple Phrosty (it’s 100% Kauai Sugarloaf white pineapples, they promise!).

Another specialized venture has garnered attention on Oahu, too. Hawaiian for “honey cream,” the Meli Kalima variety is grown exclusively by Frankie’s Nursery in Waimanalo, Oahu. While they’ve been operating for over 30 years, Meli Kalima has been on the market for five. Backed by a patent, the sweet-ashoney, pale-as-cream variety is sold crown-less so it cannot be propagated. The patent is currently for sale, though, as the owners are looking to retire. “Our customers say it’s the best pineapple in the world, so someone has to keep growing it!” says Lynn, co-owner of Frankie’s Nursery.

Big agriculture continues to invest elsewhere, which has resulted in loss of jobs on the islands and other economic issues. But while plantations have been deserted, traces of a once-booming industry have been replaced by a new wave of determined farmers with the goal of keeping Hawaii’s pineapple industry as good as gold, and as sweet as sugarloaf.

WRITTEN BY BRYNA ROSE STORCH
PHOTOGRAPHY BY MAMI WYCKOFF

“In this new “Talk Story” segment of the magazine, we invite locals to share their personal experiences of working with food and plants in Hawaii in their own authentic voice.”

The eight-legged boar trotted up the hill, haunches glossy in the dawn, muscles rolling under the thick scruff of his neck and rumbling with grunts, he ran right past us, my grandmother and me, sitting at the bus stop. A happy bounce in his legs, on the way to his morning nap. Sniffing for strawberries that had turned wild in that neighborhood, growing in the crevices of rocks and roots. Bus came, we went. My stop was first while Grandma continued on to her work, parting with a provocation, “How you gonna do all that?”

The way home is either dusty or muddy. Through the woods, the river-silt road is the only open pathway to light, which shines through high trees in long beams. Dirt swirls like fancy smoke from footsteps. The air smells of river, of cool stones, wet leaves and atmosphere being born. Farms peek through hedges and beyond shadows, murmurs of whose breadfruit are ripe, sudden gasp of a can opening, background buzz of insects. Lizards who have seen it all bask on branches. Instinctual pauses for plumeria.

As the road rounds and the sky opens, a low rainbow hums from within the dark forest up the valley. The clouds above could be angels, animals, or omens of who I’ll love… But then there’s a wild crashing, an explosion of breaking branches and right in my face is the wet breath of a red mule who’s sprinted to the end of her rope which reaches right to the edge of the road. Expecting a papaya, searching for a snack, kissy snorts, angling for a good scratch. From the moment her big ears catch you coming from miles away, she go hiding in the bushes for her funny game. Will get you every time, shi-shi-panty kine. She’s just too much.

Loosening the rope from the swivel, slipping it into a sloppy knot over her nose, rolling clumsy onto her shaggy back, she wanders on and takes us home. Her owner is too grumpy to know that she often goes free. She nibbles banana peels and comfrey leaves along the roadside then naps next to the fire pit on a hearth made of heart stones, soft ashes balance on her eyelashes.

Had been a drought for so long, rainy season had passed with blue skies, cracked earth and only the weeds and mangos growing happy. Still, I planted seeds and starts in little pots to be ready for the right day. Every single day giving root to at least one being. Gathering all the free moments in between into a bucket to water all that had begun. So that it could never be questioned if the forest was ready to grow. And after many months, almost a year, now the rain was coming to believe in the trees.

The sky is filling, thick with clouds close to spilling. Stepping down stone stairs that Aunty Paʻa had perfectly placed, I grab crates full of starts waiting by the ditch and set out to offer roots to soil. Been waiting for this day, when a good heavy soak would give these seedlings some hope, to plant a forest to protect us. That the future may want to keep us.

Air so warm, sweat so thick, could barely feel the heavy drops soak through my shirt. Crouched planting, planting, sipping the very heavens streaming down my face. River rising, rising, turning red. Rivulets rambling and all sorts of swirling. Loosening dead trees as if a light blanket of leaves. Bathing dry valleys with rushing streams. Vast handfuls of spreading seeds. ʻOʻopu unleashed. Hidden springs singing. Underfoot, waterways pulsed within the land, exactly like the maps that Uncle Earnest once drew. Was him who told me, “From the softest rock, the forest grew.”

The storm revealed the safest places and wherever I could, I planted them all- one thousand starts. The water’s rage danced in my chest but as my crate emptied, the river gentled its course. Within mist and profound darkness, a forest gave birth. Scattered leaves gathered along the high-water mark, a wild lei offered to the earth.

Now the mule stands still as a stone outside the house, gently cuing me to rest, let everything be. Bones sink deep into the weather’s roar, long surrendered to the potential of drowning but gratefully floating into sunlight shining through the twisted old longan tree. Laughter singing in light streaming through green leaves, smoke rising from the cooking fire. Warm air swirls in my face as a smiling child flies into arms reach, kicking high on an old koa swing. Her face in the sun rays, squinting in glowing beams. Prettiest thing I’d ever seen, this familiar being sprouting deep within a flood dream.

Bryna Rose Storch: I am a farmer on Kauai and founded Lanipō Farm in 2010. I’ve loved plants & gardening since childhood and learned to farm from aunties, uncles and friends. I believe in a proper fallow, sharp shovels, organic matter, doing better and a good cookie. Farming inspires me to write and my stories are as true as can be.