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History of California by Bandini, Helen Elliott - Chapter XV

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History of California

Chapter XV

Cal­ifor­nia’s oth­er Con­tri­bu­tions to the World’s Bill of Fare

By 1874 peo­ple in the East­ern states had be­gun to talk of Cal­ifor­nia canned fruits. Apri­cots and the large white grape found ready sale, but Cal­ifor­nia raisins, though on the mar­ket, were not in de­mand. That line from the old game “Mala­ga raisins are very fine raisins and figs from Smyr­na are bet­ter,” rep­re­sent­ed the idea of the pub­lic; and figs, raisins, and prunes eat­en in the Unit­ed States all came from abroad. But how is it to-​day?

Thanks­giv­ing and Christ­mas din­ners of our East­ern friends owe much to Cal­ifor­nia. She sends the seed­less raisins, can­died or­ange and lemon peel, the cit­ron and beet sug­ar for the mince pies and plum pud­dings. Her cold-​stor­age cars car­ry to the win­ter-​bound states the de­li­cious white cel­ery of the peat lands, snow-​white heads of cauliflow­er, crisp string beans, sweet young peas, green squash, cu­cum­bers, and ripe toma­toes. For the sal­ads are her olives and fresh let­tuce dressed with the gold­en olive oil of the Gold­en State. Of ripe fruits, she sends pears, grapes, or­anges, pomegranates. For desserts, she sup­plies great clus­ters of rich sug­ary raisins, creamy figs, stuffed prunes, and soft-​shelled al­monds and wal­nuts. All these and oth­er del­ica­cies Cal­ifor­nia gives to­ward the hol­iday mak­ing in the East.

But it is not on­ly to the homes of the wealthy that she car­ries good cheer; to peo­ple who have very lit­tle mon­ey to spend, and those who are far away from civ­iliza­tion, as sol­diers, sur­vey­ors, wood­men, and road-​builders, Cal­ifor­nia’s prod­ucts go to help make palat­able fare. To these her canned meats, fish, and veg­eta­bles, and canned and dried fruits, are very wel­come.

The can­ner­ies and fruit-​pack­ing es­tab­lish­ments of the state bring in many mil­lions of dol­lars each year and give em­ploy­ment to a host of peo­ple, a large num­ber of whom are wom­en and young girls.

Most of the fruits Cal­ifor­nia now rais­es came in­to the coun­try with the padres. Cap­tain Van­cou­ver tells us that he found at the San­ta Clara mis­sion, at the time of his vis­it in 1792, a fine or­chard con­sist­ing of ap­ples, pears, peach­es, plums, apri­cots; and at San Bue­naven­tu­ra all these with the ad­di­tion of or­anges, grapes, and pomegranates. Al­fred Robin­son de­scribes the or­chards and vine­yards of San Gabriel mis­sion as very ex­ten­sive. Wine and brandy were made at most of the mis­sions, San Fer­nan­do be­ing es­pe­cial­ly not­ed for its brandy. Guadalupe Valle­jo tells of ba­nanas plan­tains, sug­ar cane, cit­rons, and date palms grow­ing at the south­ern mis­sions. Palm trees were plant­ed “for their fruit, for the hon­or of St. Fran­cis, and for use on Palm Sun­day.”

Not on­ly did the padres en­joy fresh fruits from their gar­dens, but raisins were dried from the grapes, cit­ron, or­ange, and lemon peel were can­died, and much fruit was pre­served. It is not record­ed that they had pump­kin pie in those days, but a small, fine-​grained pump­kin was raised ex­ten­sive­ly for pre­serves. It is still a fa­vorite dain­ty among the na­tive Cal­ifor­ni­ans, and no Span­ish din­ner is com­plete with­out this dulce, as it is called. Span­ish-​Amer­ican house­wives ex­cel their Amer­ican sis­ters in the art of pre­serv­ing. Pump­kin, peach, pear, fig, are all treat­ed in the same man­ner, be­ing first soaked in lye, then thor­ough­ly washed and scald­ed in abun­dance of fresh wa­ter, and then cooked in a very heavy sirup. The re­sult of this treat­ment is that the out­side of the fruit is crisp and brit­tle, while the in­side is creamy and de­li­cious.

The first of Cal­ifor­nia’s dried fruits to come be­fore the pub­lic was the raisin. Raisins are mere­ly the prop­er va­ri­ety of grapes suit­ably dried. Some think that they are dipped in sug­ar, but this is not the fact. The on­ly sug­ar is that con­tained in the juice of the grape, which should be about one fourth sug­ar. The on­ly raisin grape for gen­er­al use is the green­ish va­ri­ety called the Mus­cat. The rich pur­ple or choco­late col­or of the raisin of the mar­ket is caused by the ac­tion of the sun while the raisin is be­ing cured. If dried in the shade the fruit has a sick­ly green­ish hue. The seed­less Sul­tana is a small grape, fast com­ing in­to fa­vor for a cook­ing raisin.

The prop­er plant­ing of a raisin vine­yard re­quires a large amount of care and la­bor. But the sum­mer is one long hol­iday, as there is lit­tle to do to the vines from ear­ly May un­til Au­gust. Then comes pick­ing time. From all the coun­try round gath­er men and wom­en, boys and girls, and the work be­gins.

To be a suc­cess­ful raisin grow­er and pack­er, one must take care in all lit­tle things. The work­man who ne­glects to cut from the branch the im­per­fect or bad grapes, or who lays the fruit in the trays so that it will be in heaps or over­lapped, is apt to be soon dis­charged. Af­ter about a week of ex­po­sure to the sun and air, the grapes are turned by plac­ing an emp­ty tray over a full one, and re­vers­ing the po­si­tions. Then af­ter a few days longer in the sun, the fruit goes to the sweat-​box, a hun­dred pounds to the box, and is placed in a room in the pack­ing house, where it lies about ten days. The bunch­es go in­to this room un­equal­ly dried, with still a look and taste of grape about them, but af­ter this sweat­ing pro­cess they come out uni­form in ap­pear­ance, rich, sug­ary, tempt­ing,–the raisins of com­merce, with lit­tle sug­ges­tion of the fruit from which they came. Then they are boxed.

There are gen­er­al­ly three grades: very choice clus­ters, or­di­nary and im­per­fect bunch­es, and loose raisins. Raisins of the third class are sent to the stem­mer and a large pro­por­tion of them then go to the seed­er. Seed­ing raisins for moth­er and grand­moth­er at hol­iday times used to be the du­ty and plea­sure of the old­er boys and girls of the house­hold. But seed­ing is now done by ma­chin­ery. A ma­chine will seed on an av­er­age ten tons dai­ly. Be­fore en­ter­ing the seed­er the raisins are sub­ject­ed to a thor­ough brush­ing, by which ev­ery par­ti­cle of dust is re­moved. They are then run through rub­ber rollers which flat­ten the fruit and press the seeds to the sur­face; then through an­oth­er pair of rollers, with wire teeth which catch and hold the seeds while the raisins pass on down a long chute to the pack­ing room, where wom­en and girls box them for mar­ket.

With all fruits the dry­ing pro­cess is much the same, though peach­es, ap­ples, and pears are first peeled. Cal­ifor­nia figs, when dried, sell well. This is a fruit which is grow­ing in fa­vor, whether fresh, pre­served, or dried. Fruit can­ning is an in­ter­est­ing pro­cess. The fruit is not boiled in sirup and then placed in cans, as is fre­quent­ly the cus­tom in home pre­serv­ing, but when peeled it is placed di­rect­ly in the cans, in which it re­ceives all its cook­ing and in which it is fi­nal­ly mar­ket­ed.

The rais­ing of beets and the con­vert­ing of them in­to sug­ar form an in­dus­try which is grow­ing rapid­ly, and is of the ut­most im­por­tance to the peo­ple of the Pa­cif­ic slope.

The can­ning of fresh veg­eta­bles is a new in­dus­try which is bring­ing in­to the state a steady stream of mon­ey, and in ad­di­tion is prov­ing a dou­ble bless­ing to thou­sands of peo­ple, both those who gain from it their liv­ing, and those who could not oth­er­wise have veg­eta­bles for food. A sailor said re­cent­ly that if he could not be a sailor he would do the next best thing–can veg­eta­bles for oth­er sailors. When Galvez re­ceived the or­der from the king of Spain to found set­tle­ments in Up­per Cal­ifor­nia, one of the chief rea­sons for so do­ing was that fresh veg­eta­bles might be raised for the sailors en­gaged in the Philip­pine trade. To-​day the Philip­pines use a large por­tion of Cal­ifor­nia’s canned goods.

In the south­ern coun­ties olive or­chards are be­ing ex­ten­sive­ly plant­ed. Near San Fer­nan­do is the largest in the world, cov­er­ing thir­teen hun­dred acres. Doc­tors have said that a lib­er­al use of Cal­ifor­nia olive oil will do much to pro­mote the good health of mankind, and it is thought by many that the man­ufac­ture of olive oil will be one of the great­est in­dus­tries the state has known.

Nut rais­ing is keep­ing pace with fruit in im­por­tance. To an East­ern per­son it seems strange to see nut-​bear­ing trees cul­ti­vat­ed in or­chards; though prof­itable, this method does away with the plea­sures of nut­ting par­ties.

Cal­ifor­nia’s crys­tal­lized fruits are in con­stant de­mand, es­pe­cial­ly for the Christ­mas trade. This crys­tal­liz­ing is a pro­cess in which the juice is ex­tract­ed and re­placed with sug­ar sirup, which hard­ens and pre­serves the fruit from de­cay while still keep­ing the shape.

One some­times reads the say­ing, “Fres­no for raisins, San­ta Clara for cher­ries and prunes, and the north­ern coun­ties and moun­tain-​ranch­es for ap­ples.” But in fact, Cal­ifor­nia’s fruit in­dus­tries are well dis­tribut­ed over the state, and the re­al­ly ex­cel­lent work which is be­ing done in all sec­tions will still ad­vance as the peo­ple learn more of the nec­es­sary de­tails and meth­ods.

In spite of mis­takes and ex­per­iments the steady progress on the Cal­ifor­nia ranch­es is be­ing rec­og­nized. Of one of our lead­ing fruit grow­ers, Mr. Eli­wood Coop­er of San­ta Bar­bara, the Mar­quis of Lorne writes in the Youth’s Com­pan­ion: “He has shown that Cal­ifor­nia can pro­duce bet­ter olive oil than France, Spain, or Italy, and En­glish wal­nuts and Eu­ro­pean al­monds in crops of which the old coun­try hard­ly even dreams.”

A his­to­ry of Cal­ifor­nia’s prod­ucts would be in­com­plete with­out a ref­er­ence to him who is called the “Won­der Work­er of San­ta Rosa.” “Ma­gi­cian! Con­jur­er!” are terms fre­quent­ly ap­plied to Mr. Luther Bur­bank, the man who is ac­knowl­edged by the sci­en­tists of the world to have done more with fruits and flow­ers than any oth­er man. Mr. Bur­bank waves his wand, and the na­tive pop­py turns to deep­est crim­son, the white of the calla lily be­comes a gor­geous yel­low, rose and black­ber­ry lose their thorns, the cac­tus its spines. The meat of the wal­nut and al­mond be­come rich­er in qual­ity, while their shells di­min­ish to the thin­ness of a knife blade.

Yet in these seem­ing mir­acles there is noth­ing of “black art” or sleight of hand. The ex­per­iments of this won­der­ful man, the sur­pris­ing re­sults he gains, are ob­tained, first by a close study of the laws of na­ture, then, where he de­sires change and im­prove­ment, by as­sist­ing her pro­cess, of­ten through years of clos­est ap­pli­ca­tion and un­ceas­ing toil. He is a man of whom it is truth­ful­ly said, “He has led a life of hard­ships, has sac­ri­ficed self at ev­ery point, that he might glo­ri­fy and make more beau­ti­ful the world around him.” Any boy or girl who knows some­thing of how plants grow and re­pro­duce them­selves will find great plea­sure in fol­low­ing Mr. Bur­bank’s sim­ple meth­ods.

It is on­ly re­cent­ly that his coun­try­men have be­gun to ap­pre­ci­ate the work of this great nat­ural­ist. A short time ago a res­ident of Berke­ley, a stu­dent and book-​lover, one who knew Mr. Bur­bank but had giv­en lit­tle at­ten­tion to his pro­duc­tions, was in Paris. While there he had the good for­tune to be present at a lec­ture de­liv­ered be­fore a gath­er­ing of the most em­inent sci­en­tists of Eu­rope. In the course of his ad­dress the speak­er had oc­ca­sion to men­tion the name of Luther Bur­bank. In­stant­ly ev­ery man in the au­di­ence arose and stood a mo­ment in si­lence, giv­ing to the sim­ple men­tion of Mr. Bur­bank’s name the re­spect usu­al­ly paid to the pres­ence of roy­al­ty. It is a name now known in all the lan­guages of the civ­ilized world, and num­bers of the wis­est of the world’s cit­izens cross the ocean sole­ly to vis­it the busy plant-​grow­er of San­ta Rosa.

Luther Bur­bank was born in Worces­ter, Mas­sachusetts, in 1849, and while yet a lad his strongest de­sire was to pro­duce new plants bet­ter than the old ones. His first ex­per­iment was with a veg­etable. For the sake of get­ting seed, he plant­ed some Ear­ly Rose pota­toes in his moth­er’s gar­den. In the whole patch on­ly one seed-​ball de­vel­oped, and this he watched with con­stant care. Great was his dis­ap­point­ment, there­fore, when one morn­ing, just as it was ready to be picked, he found that it had dis­ap­peared. A care­ful search failed to re­cov­er the miss­ing ball, but as he thought the mat­ter over, while at work, it struck Luther that per­haps a dog had knocked it off in bound­ing through the gar­den. Look­ing more care­ful­ly for it, he found the ball twen­ty feet away from the vine on which it had hung. In it were twen­ty-​three small, well-​de­vel­oped seeds. These he plant­ed with great care, and from one of them came the first Bur­bank pota­toes. The wealth of the coun­try was ma­te­ri­al­ly in­creased by this dis­cov­ery; the wealth of the boy on­ly to the amount of one hun­dred and twen­ty-​five dol­lars, which he used in at­tend­ing a bet­ter school than he had be­fore been able to en­joy.

In 1875 Mr. Bur­bank, to se­cure, as he said, “a cli­mate which should be an al­ly and not an en­emy to his work,” moved to San­ta Rosa, Cal­ifor­nia. For ten years of pover­ty and se­vere toil he was en­gaged, for the sake of a liveli­hood, in the nurs­ery busi­ness, mak­ing, in the mean­time, such ex­per­iments as he had time for. Dur­ing the next twen­ty years, how­ev­er, Mr. Bur­bank was able to give near­ly his whole time to his na­ture-​stud­ies. His en­er­gy is tire­less, and his aim is to sup­ply to hu­man­ity some­thing for beau­ty, sus­te­nance, or com­merce bet­ter than it has pos­sessed.

Per­haps among all his pro­duc­tions the great­est good to the world will arise from the spine­less cac­tus. The scourge of the Amer­ican desert is the cac­tus, com­mon­ly known as the prick­ly pear, the whole sur­face of which is cov­ered with fine, needle­like spines, while its leaves are filled with a woody fiber most hurt­ful to an­imal life. When eat­en by hunger-​crazed cat­tle it caus­es death. Af­ter years of la­bor Mr. Bur­bank has suc­ceed­ed in de­vel­op­ing from this most un­promis­ing of plants a per­fect­ed cac­tus which is tru­ly a store­house of food for man and beast. Spines and woody fiber have dis­ap­peared, leav­ing juicy, pear-​shaped leaves, weigh­ing of­ten twen­ty-​five or fifty pounds, which, when cooked in sirup, make a de­li­cious pre­serve, and in their nat­ural state fur­nish a nour­ish­ing, thirst-​quench­ing food for do­mes­tic an­imals. The fruit of this im­mense plant is aro­mat­ic and del­icate, and its seeds are at present worth far more than their weight in gold, since from them are to spring thou­sands of plants by means of which it is be­lieved the un­in­hab­it­able por­tions of the desert may be made to sup­port num­ber­less herds of cat­tle.

An­oth­er of Mr. Bur­bank’s achieve­ments is the ev­er­green crim­son rhubarb, which is not on­ly far less acid than the old va­ri­ety, but rich­er in fla­vor and a gi­ant in size.

The po­ma­to, a toma­to grown on a pota­to plant, is most in­ter­est­ing. The plant is a free bear­er, hav­ing a white, suc­cu­lent, de­li­cious fruit, ad­mirable when cooked, used in a sal­ad, or eat­en fresh as our oth­er fruit.

The ex­per­iments with prunes con­duct­ed at the San­ta Rosa ranch have been of the great­est val­ue to the state. For forty years the prune grow­ers of the Pa­cif­ic slope had been search­ing for a va­ri­ety of this fruit which would be as rich in sug­ar and as abun­dant a bear­er as the lit­tle Cal­ifor­nia prune of com­merce, and yet of a larg­er size, and ear­li­er in its time of ripen­ing. Mr. Bur­bank with his fa­mous sug­ar prune filled all these re­quire­ments, and rev­olu­tion­ized the prune in­dus­try of the state. Be­sides this tri­umph he has suc­ceed­ed in ob­tain­ing a va­ri­ety of this fruit hav­ing a shell-​less ker­nel, so that the fruit when dried much re­sem­bles those which are ar­ti­fi­cial­ly stuffed.

The flow­ers which Mr. Bur­bank has evolved by his meth­ods, and those which he has sim­ply en­larged and glo­ri­fied, are far too nu­mer­ous to be named here.

In 1905 a grant of ten thou­sand dol­lars a year was be­stowed up­on Mr. Bur­bank by the Carnegie In­sti­tu­tion of Wash­ing­ton, D.C., for the pur­pose of as­sist­ing him in his ex­per­iments. Sel­dom has mon­ey been bet­ter placed.