I’m looking out over a scenic valley, my ill-chosen sandals covered in morning dew and verdant debris, when Bill Moretz turns to me and says, “Have you ever had a black raspberry?”
When I indicate that I haven’t had the pleasure, Moretz says, “Really? I’m surprised. They’re fairly common.”
“Oh, so they’re available in grocery stores?” I ask, wondering how I could have overlooked something so interesting.
Moretz cocks his head, puzzled. Sunlight peers through his loosely woven straw hat, casting speckled light on his face. “No,” he says, “probably not in grocery stores.”
Common is a relative notion.
He pulls a plump berry from a nearby bush and hands it to me. When I pop it into my mouth, it explodes with a blackberry-tinged, raspberry taste that somehow seems more raspberry-like than the red raspberries I’ve been eating all of my life.
“They’re native,” Moretz explains.
In this one, fine, delicious moment, it becomes clear that Moretz lives and eats with a local food mentality. He isn’t likely to have an MVP card from Food Lion or a VIC card from Harris Teeter hanging from his keychain. The exchange also illustrates how fruit-deprived my life has been. That is, until now.
The two of us are standing in the heart of Moretz’s apple orchard in Western North Carolina. Moretz grows a variety of berries and fruits, but he is, at heart, an apple man. Moretz is the third generation to tend this land, though he’s not sure exactly how much land it is he’s tending.
“Could be 20-22 acres,” he shrugs. The parcel hasn’t been surveyed since the 1930s when his grandfather purchased it. “They measured land distances in rod not feet back then.”
The family-raised orchard began when Moretz’s grandfather was given a selection of trees from a neighbor who had ordered too many from a traveling salesman. Moretz has a sense of responsibility and connection to the land because of his lineage. Given this, it is not surprising that Moretz has become Watauga County’s go-to guy for heirloom apples, varieties that have been handed down generation-to-generation.
“Imagine if your family history was a blank slate,” he says. “Where would that leave you? It’s valuable to know where you come from… When a plant goes extinct we never know what medicine could come from it. It’s the same with apples. We never know what good’s going to come out of them.”
What Moretz knows, and I’m about to find out, is that heirloom apples are proof that variety is more than the spice of life—it’s also the sweetness.
Modern tastes might not gauge the apple as an incredibly sweet fruit, but imagine a time before sugar was a standard cupboard ingredient. It was the late 19th century before sugar was available and affordable enough to be a household item. Back then, honey, molasses, sorghum, and fruit were primary sources of sweetness, and apples were the fruit most Americans had access to. This was especially true in Appalachia, where apples were more than a fine dessert—they were a staple of survival.
The Appalachian region falls between two different growing climates, meaning that it can accommodate numerous varieties of apples. According to Moretz, the region is as suited for raising the northern-grown Macintosh as it is the southern-grown Fiji. This unique positioning has made it fertile ground for apples, and its ideal growing conditions have given the region an apple-happy reputation that some claim rivals that of the Northwest.
“I’ve shipped my apples as far as Washington State,” Moretz says. “I’ve got varieties nobody else can find.”
Our ancestors had infinite variety when it came to apples. There is an old adage that claims “Anyone can count the seeds in an apple; only God can count the apples in the seed.” The saying becomes more interesting once you understand the apple’s biology. The biggest noggin’-knocker that falls when you shake the research tree is this: An apple grown from a seed bears little resemblance to its parent variety. Each apple seedling is unique, and the sort of fruit it bears is a surprise every time. The apple’s biology makes it excessively adaptable. Each individual seed presents a new genetic possibility. If enough seeds fall there’s bound to be one variety that’s genetically disposed to thrive in the environment where it has taken root. Unfortunately, an apple tree’s survival has little to do with the quality of its fruit.
Only one in 1,000 seedlings grows into a tree with fruit that’s good enough to eat, and even fewer bear fruit that will be deemed worthy of propagation. Despite the odds, early settlers often carried seeds with them as they traversed the Appalachian frontier, hoping their seeds’ unknown genetic code would ultimately result in an apple variety they could depend on for survival.
“They had all their belongings in a covered wagon,” Moretz says. “They didn’t have room for trees, but they had room for seeds.”
Apple seeds were the pioneers’ version of a lottery ticket. Homesteaders and farmers were always watchful of their fields, hoping to discover that one of their seedlings was going to be a winner. If a usable tree grew on your land just a few generations back, it meant you were set. You could subsist off the tree, and you could graft the tree to sell it to others. Grafting, the process of taking a section of stem with leaf buds and inserting it into the stock of an already rooted tree, is the only way to propagate an already-established variety. This means that all Red Delicious apples essentially come from the descendent branches of that first, gloriously born-of-chance Red Delicious seedling.
“Sometimes only one family would have a particular tree,” Moretz explains.
Often, families would decide to graft the tree but not without honoring its founders through its name. This explains why many southern heirloom apples have lovely, old-timey names like Mama Beem and Aunt Cora’s Yard Apple. It also explains why the Moretz family is the only family in Watauga County, southern Appalachia, and, indeed, the world, that grows an apple known as the Zesty Z.
“The Zesty Z came up from seed on the side of the orchard,” Moretz says. “It was cross pollinated; they all are when they’re not in a laboratory. From the taste and texture, we figure it has some Transparent in it.”
This sense of mystery is part of the Zesty Z’s charm, and its survival is dependent on Moretz’s interest in it. He looks out over the orchard, his life’s work.
“If I don’t get the Zesty Z spread out a little more,” he says, “it will die when this orchard dies. I’ll try to get it out there before the time comes. I guess it might become an heirloom if it makes it through a few generations.”
This is trickier than it sounds.
According to Creighton Lee Calhoun’s book, Old Southern Apples, considered to be one of the best books on the region’s apple heritage, 1,300 varieties of once-revered southern apples are extinct because there are no more living trees. But the search for these varieties continues. Roughly 100 varieties that were thought to be extinct have been rediscovered in the past few decades, mostly by people who come across abandoned orchards or find untended trees along old trade routes. Moretz occasionally gets calls from people who’ve found apples they’d like him to examine.
“Nine times out of ten it’s a variety that’s still around,” he explains, “and a lot of times it’s something I already have.” He laughs a little at the apple-in-a-haystack chance that an extinct variety might be rediscovered in Watauga County under his watch, but then he concedes, “You never know.”
Woodlands often come to mind when talking about southern Appalachia’s rich biodiversity, but agricultural biodiversity is just as important, and it is ever-dwindling in similar ways. Even though thousands of apple varieties were on the market in centuries past, the apples available in supermarkets today are derived from the same five trees: Red Delicious, Jonathan, Golden Delicious, Macintosh and Cox’s Orange Pippen. Commercial nurseries propagate these trees in great numbers, creating a situation that could decimate the apple population if an easily-spread pest infestation or disease comes along.
Another modern twist on the apple’s story is that most apple varieties on the market today are trademarked or patented, which means growers must pay a fee when they purchase a tree. The heirlooms, by contrast, are often freely available to anyone who is willing to put in the time and care necessary to graft a tree. Heirloom apples often require less pesticide treatment due to their hardy breeding and, people who value heirlooms are less likely to mind imperfections.
Heirlooms like the Snow Apple are sometimes shy bearers, but they require as much work as trees that produce a great deal of fruit. This is another reason commercial growers don’t cultivate variety. Some growers charge more for heirlooms to make up for the discrepancy in labor verses yield, but Moretz sells all of his “modern” and heirloom apples for the same price.
“Not everything’s about money,” he says. “You’ve got to preserve part of the past.”
Preservation of heritage has long been a cultural norm in the Appalachian region, as well as, preserving each summer’s and fall’s apple harvest for leaner, colder seasons. Appalachia’s exceptional suitability for apple trees historically meant that families often had a surplus of fruit to see them through the winter, and they saw apples as much more than a fresh snack. There was a time when apple butter, that delectable mush often simmering in large cast-iron pots at regional heritage festivals, was more than a treat. The creation of apple butter was only one of the innovative ways apples were preserved. Historically, families had numerous apple varieties suited to their various needs, which included apple-based cider, brandy and vinegar. In fact, apples were rarely eaten raw; they were more often consumed baked or fried. Less desirable apples were fed to livestock.
It’s hard to imagine what it would be like to have thousands of apple varieties on-hand, or what it would be like to depend so heavily on one fruit for survival. If anyone could relate to the importance of the apple in Appalachia’s history, it would be Moretz.
Moretz’s favorite apple for eating is the Yoko, a relatively young variety, and he has a long list of heirloom favorites when it comes to cooking. Moretz singles out the Transparent and the Zesty Z as well-rounded cooking apples. For apple butter, he likes Maiden’s Blush, Pound Apple, and Wolf River. His preferred form of consumption is the homemade pie, especially when that pie includes Blushing Gold and Senator, an apple also known as Oliver. Moretz talks about apple pie as a wine connoisseur might discuss Chardonnay. Around here, pie is something to be tasted seriously.
Not long ago, a neighbor invited Moretz over for dinner. He brought a pie to share with his host and fellow dinner guests, one of whom was visiting from Florida.
“I think he was originally from up north,” Moretz recalls. “He told me, ‘An apple pie without cheese is like a hug without a squeeze,’ and I told him ‘A pie that can’t stand on its own needs to be thrown!’”
As Moretz and I wander row after row through his orchard, I’m treated to apple after apple. Moretz hands me a piece of fruit and says, “That Macoun is going to be tart and milky.”
The taunt red skin of the apple yields under my teeth and I’m treated to a sensory delight.
“They’re best when they’re dead ripe, right before they’re getting ready to spoil,” he says “They don’t travel well.”
I juggle samples of Macoun, Summer Rambo, Winter Rambo, Zesty Z, and Lodi as he talks.
“Now, the Lodi’s a little firmer than the Zesty Z, but a lot more sour,” he informs me.
The fruit flesh in my mouth reminds me of the sour patch candies I despised as a child. It’s slightly sweet and oh-so-so-sour. Moretz notices the creases in my nose and says, “You’d be surprised how many people take a salt shaker and eat ones just like that.”
I cringe at the thought.
We move on, arriving at a small stand of trees bearing Pound Apples, exceptionally large apples that live up to their name. The Pound Apple came into the Moretz orchard when he found it growing across the creek from his home. He began making trips to gather apples for his own use and finally decided to graft the tree to bring it over to his orchard. The Pound Apple, like many of the heirlooms in Moretz’s orchard, goes in and out of fashion at the Watauga County Farmers’ Market where he has faithfully sold his harvest every season for the last 15 years.
We leave the Pounds and move over to a tree bearing Sweet Dixons, one of Moretz’s favorite heirloom varieties. “Taste this,” he says, tossing an apple my way. “You can taste the sugar, but you can tell it’s green yet.” I bite into the fruit with a crackle, and the greenness seeps into my mouth. The apple is sweet and a little chalky, but it’s flavored with the color green, like the embodied freshness of grass just after it’s mowed. It smells like the crispness of a fall day, and it tastes like the greenness of summer. It is the embodiment of my two favorite seasons, and it was created by a tree that has survived against all odds.
Old Southern Apples includes a write-up on the Sweet Dixon. The apple’s story, as Calhoun recounts it, is tied to Watauga County and illustrates it as a place in transition. Calhoun writes that this apple was widely grown in Watauga County in the early 19th century. In researching his book, Calhoun learned of a woman, Inadene Hampton, who had an old Sweet Dixon tree. When he contacted her, he learned her tree had been accidentally cut down to make room for the region’s newest timber trend—Christmas trees Calhoun was crestfallen at the loss since, at that time, he didn’t know where to find another tree of that variety. So Hampton declared she would find another one for him to examine. She did, of course. It was the neighborly thing to do.
The Sweet Dixon was never sold by North Carolina nurseries, which means it is an apple that was passed from neighbor to neighbor until it found a home on the very patch of land where I’m now standing. It’s a lovely thought. I’m grateful to be holding the fruit of a native apple tree, and I’m pleased to realize that the Sweet Dixon is, mysteriously, more apple-like than any grocery-store apple I’ve ever consumed.
Moretz stands beside me, casually flipping through a list of the nearly 100 varieties bound by his clipboard. He calls the list his “memory.” There are just as many varieties listed on the white pages, which seem to glow in the now mid day sun.
In 1995, Calhoun wrote, “We are living in the last days of the Southern Apple.”
I hope he is wrong, but I suspect he’s not. Some of the apples on Moretz’s list are considered common in the heirloom world, but they are not the sort of fruit that will ever appear in the local grocery store chains. Whether or not that will be their demise depends on the number of consumers who support local agriculture.
The Virginia Beauty, like most heirlooms, is an apple variety that must be bought and sold hand-to-hand from a farmer’s market, roadside stand or farm kiosk.
“Do you like the Virginia Beauty?” I ask Moretz. He nods yes and says, “It has an old-time flavor that’s hard to explain. It’s not fresh and spirited; it’s got a deep, rich flavor.”
I haven’t yet taken a bite of Virginia Beauty, but I can already imagine the experience. Texture: not too soft, not too firm. Scent: as musky as the fading memory of a pocket watch-wearing grandfather’s cologne, as nostalgic as the smell of a well-loved antique book. The Virginia Beauty tastes like history.