I first discovered durian as the result of research into its tropical cousin, the mangosteen. I had purchased that little purple fist of a fruit and was investigating its origins when I learned of its yin relationship to durian’s yang: in Southeast Asian tradition, the two are eaten together, since the mangosteen’s “cooling” attributes counteract durian’s warming properties and prevent such symptoms as excessive sweating and “irrepressible libido.” Needless to say, my curiosity was piqued. I found pictures of a greenish, basketball-sized mace, covered in spikes; I read accounts of harvesters suffering concussions and bloody head wounds from falling fruit. But what compelled me most was the smell.
The fact is that nothing has brought out disagreeable descriptions in culinary writing quite the way the durian has. Its scent has been compared to turpentine, gym socks, civet, and sewage; it is banned from many Thai and Indonesian hotels, despite its local culinary popularity. That’s right, people eat it – and love to! In fact, Thailand holds an annual durian festival, celebrating the fragrant fruit.
Its taste is described with intense variety, comparisons ranging from onion sauce to almonds to vanilla ice cream. These gulfs of opinion are widened by the differences in durian varieties; indeed, culinary use does nothing to illuminate the true nature of this fruit, for while it is prepared in savory sauces in Sumatra, in the Philippines it is used exclusively for desserts such as cakes and candy.
Of course, I was absolutely besotted with the idea of experiencing a food compared to eating "blancmange in a lavatory.” But where would I find one? Wikipedia assured me that durians had made their way to Western markets – mellow breeds whose scent could be contained by careful packaging – and that I could find them in “specialty markets” for five dollars a pound, or about $25-35 each. I skipped the specialty markets and headed straight for that den of strange fruits, Chinatown.
I found litchis, dragonfruits, more mangosteens, and a dozen other things I didn’t recognize – but no durians.
A year went by, and the durian lingered in my subconscious like a banana kicked under the fridge. I even forgot what it looked like, but preserved the desire to experience this powerful, evocative food. Which must be why yesterday, I found myself standing outside a bodega on Canal street, staring down into a box of football-shaped plastic bags, and having a sudden thought: could there be durians in there?
(It could have been the rotting apple smell that did it.)
The shopkeeper didn’t know the English word for what was in the bag, but my nose confirmed that this must be it – my elusive durian. I paid her six dollars for the five-pound fruit, which she carefully double-bagged after wrapping it in several layers of newspaper.
I was relieved, if a little disappointed, that mine was your American-market-variety durian; nobody looked at me funny or changed seats on the train. I could smell it in my lap, through the layers of paper and plastic, but it wasn’t an unpleasant smell, really – sort of like an aging jack-o-lantern filled with bananas, with maybe a slight hint of morning-breath. No civet, though, and definitely no sewage.
An hour later, the barbed obscurity lay prone on my cutting board, and, poised to slice, I realized I didn’t really know what to expect. Would it be like a pineapple inside? Like a kiwi, or a coconut? Would juice spill out? Would there be a constellation of little seeds, or a giant pit like an avocado or a peach?
I sawed cautiously through the spiny armor and pulled back a wedge of the inch-thick hide. It made a sucking sound, revealing…what?
I’m going to be candid. Durian flesh looks like organs. Like a pancreas, actually, or a liver, if a liver were a buttery yellow color. I slid my hand under the “pod” of durian meat, and as I lifted it out of the husk, I had the distinct sensation of dissecting a body. Mesmerized, I laid the slick, yellow mass on the counter and split open its thin membrane.
A creamy custard oozed out, pudding-like, vanilla-colored. This wasn’t like any fruit I had ever seen before – not even an avocado or a mashed banana comes close to this pure, decadent texture. The scent became more complicated, sweeter, but still carrying undertones of that strange musk. I dipped a finger in and spread the yellow cream on my tongue.
Crème brûlée without the brûlée, was my first reaction. My second reaction was something like, Holy crap! I’m comparing something that smells like compost to my favorite dessert!. Vanilla ice cream, banana milkshake…I could not have been more astonished – durian tastes good! Really good! It makes me overuse italics! I sampled another dollop of the sweet custard. This time I experienced more of the odor, and the flavor, though still predominantly vanilla-banana with maybe just a touch of onion, was less satisfying. In fact, with each subsequent nibble – though still charmed by this strange fruit – I became less certain that I had discovered the new Eden.
In the center of each buttery node I found a soft, pliable pit, ostensibly edible when cooked (or so claims Wikipedia). I wrung the flesh into a bowl, discarding pits and pulp; I gently strained the resulting mass through a fine sieve, and marveled at the velvety, sunshine-yellow pudding – some two cups or more – that remained.
And then I had no idea what to do with it. The idea of eating more of it was unappetizing. I put it in the freezer.
My retrospective analysis of durian is inconclusive. Was it good? I’m not sure. But it was completely, entirely new – and I find that the more of a foodie one becomes, the rarer those experiences are. Like the first time you try cardamom or bleu cheese ice cream or truffles, that strange, wonderful newness sates your palate, changes you a little. Unlike cardamom and truffles, however (say what you like about the ice cream), durian’s reputation is a site for struggle that’s full-out theatrical – not allowed indoors by some, celebrated in festivals by others, the durian has long stood as a symbol of the subjectivity of beauty and ugliness. An Indonesian saying, translated as “getting a fallen durian,” means receiving unforeseen good fortune; nevertheless, standing under a tree full of ripe durians remains inadvisable.
So, I have plans to make ice cream with it later, maybe, or durian crème brûlée…or…does anybody need any fresh-squeezed durian?
P.S. This is my 100th post! I am so grateful, everybody, for your readership, love, and support over the past two years. Pie in the Sky has been a life-changing creative space for me, and has given me access to a whole world of online friendships that I am continually blessed by. You all mean so much to me. Thank you!!!
I miss 
On sleeting New York days in February, when the morning’s snow melts into gray lumps and children are walking home looking sullen, when the building creaks strangely and black-eyed shadows shiver and scratch in the walls, days like today, my body aches for that green, wide-open place and for the smell of the sea.
This tender, not-too-sweet tea cake, with its crumbly biscuit texture and juicy currant speckles, is a slice homesick-for-Ireland sympathy. The sweet glaze, infused with Irish whisky, tastes like the melancholy moan of Uilleann pipes rounding out a late-night pub seisiún. Best paired with tea, a journal and good pen. 
2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour, plus 1 tablespoon
