The Fruit That Waits for No One: My Annual Pawpaw Tradition

Most birthdays come with cake. Mine comes with a fruit so rare and ephemeral it borders on mythical; the pawpaw.

Each October, as the leaves turn gold and the first frost threatens, I begin watching the trees and the local markets. Pawpaws don’t come with a harvest window. They ripen on their own time, drop when they’re ready, and spoil within days. You can’t pick them early. You can’t ship them across the world. You can only wait, watch, and hope to be there at the right moment. Or in my case, as my paw paw trees are still a few years from fruiting, hoping that a few paw paws from Southern Ontario make their way to the Ottawa market.

I’ve been celebrating my birthday with pawpaws for the past five years. It’s a quiet tradition; just me, a sharp knife, and the golden, custard-like flesh of Canada’s largest native fruit. Since getting married, my wife goes with me to the market, before that, I had a few trees that I was fortunate to be able to enjoy a taste from.

Inside these fruits are glossy black seeds that look almost tropical. The taste? Imagine banana, mango, pineapple, and vanilla blended into one. Some years, there's a hint of caramel, like nature’s own dessert , though I didn’t catch that flavour this year.

The pawpaw (Asimina triloba) grows wild in parts of southern Ontario and across the eastern United States. It was once well known among Indigenous communities and early settlers, but it faded from our collective palate as industrial agriculture prioritized durability over flavour. That’s a shame, but also part of what makes finding and tasting one feel like discovering a secret.

This year’s pawpaw was soft, fragrant, and perfect. And just like that, it was gone. That’s the thing with seasonal food, it reminds you to slow down. To pay attention. To treasure things that don’t last.

If you ever stumble upon a pawpaw, count yourself lucky. It’s more than a fruit. It’s a fleeting wonder.