The pod’s dense and waxy exterior gives way to seeds coated in white pulp – sweet, bitter and nutty to the taste. They are destined for greatness in the form of chocolate bars, dried beans and tea at Lavaloha Chocolate Farm in Hilo.

“Bringing the Hawaiian cacao to light for the rest of the world – I really want to be at the forefront of that,” Lavaloha’s president Bencomo says. 

Although most of the world’s chocolate is grown in West Africa, those sweet treats aren’t guilt-free: Industry problems include slavery, child labor, poverty among farmers and more. But in recent years, small-scale producers have raised the ethical bar, and a nascent sector has formed on Hawaiian soil under American labor standards. Here, growers are making fresh kokoleka, or chocolate in ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language), through mindful agricultural practices: creating their own soil and compost, contracting with locals, and using organic fertilizer.

“For all of us in Hawai‘i, it’s integrity,” says Puna Chocolate Company owner Adam Potter. “It’s gonna be Hawaiian grown, and it’s gonna be quality beans.”

Also operating on the island, Puna Chocolate Company works with independent farmers to grow cacao, which accounts for 40 percent of its cocoa bean production. One, who is based in Hakalau, identifies as Kanaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian). The other 60 percent is produced across seven farms – four owned and three managed by Puna Chocolate Co.

To Potter, his top-selling caramel macadamia turtles are worlds away from mass-produced chocolate by major global players, such as Hershey. Imported commodities take time to reach American consumers, Potter said, which can mean slightly-rancid cocoa butter and absent flavor profiles.

“Why Hawaiian (chocolate) tastes so different is that you’re in the U.S.,” says Potter. “You’re getting fresh, from-origin chocolate.”

He and his co-owner Benjamin Vanegtern opt against aging their beans, in order to transform them into chocolate more quickly. 

“We’re probably the freshest chocolate bars you can get in the country,” Potter adds.

Still, he wants to keep prices low for the local market. In Kona, where most of the island’s resorts are located, tourists make up 80 percent of Puna Chocolate Co.’s market. But in Hilo, that percentage is flip-flopped, with residents accounting for 80 percent of business.

“We don’t need to charge that much because we do grow our own beans,” Potter says. “And we grow a lot.”

Since joining Lavaloha in 2019, Bencomo has spent most of his days farming on the property made up of almost 1,000 acres – 25 of which are dedicated to cacao. With around 10,000 trees, it’s Lavaloha’s main commodity. 

From seed to orchard, the cacao growing process can take up to two years. Once the pods turn vibrant colors – orange, red, maroon and yellow – they’re ready to be harvested with clippers and sickles. Harvesting is done by hand because appropriate equipment isn’t available on the market. Each bean is hand sorted and graded, with the lowest turned to compost. Bencomo chooses to sort the old-fashioned way because optical sorting machines are expensive and primarily used for coffee beans.

Tourists are the largest market for Lavaloha’s products, but Bencomo would eventually like to serve as a bulk bean seller. He wants to start a collective system where he buys cacao from farmers for a fair price, then resells the beans to chocolate makers and confectioners.

He manages almost a dozen employees – around 25 percent of whom are Kānaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian). The Indigenous people of Hawai‘i are increasingly being priced out of the islands due to the tourism industry, the affordable housing crisis and the skyrocketing cost of living, but a viable job market can help them continue to live in the lands of their ancestors. 

Bencomo took the reins of the business in 2022, and it’s grown steadily since then.

In Hawai‘i, “I definitely think it’s gonna be bigger,” he said. “Look out for Hawaiian cacao in the grocery stores in the next couple years, I hope.”

Across the island chain, on the east side of Kaua‘i, Will Lydgate is determined to elevate Hawai‘i’s reputation as a global leader in the chocolate industry. He estimates the state produces about 1/10,000th of the world’s cocoa supply.

“We’ll never compete on quantity, but we don’t want to,” says Lydgate, owner of Lydgate Farms. “We want to be the place where the best chocolate in the world is.”

And he believes that operating in the U.S. offers advantages beyond its agricultural resources.

Compared to other cacao-growing nations, “we also have better roads. We have FedEx,” says Lydgate. “We have scientists, universities, an electricity grid that doesn’t go on and off, stable currency – things that a lot of other tropical nations don’t have.”

But Hawaiian cacao farms do deal with their own local challenges, like high expenses and a dearth of affordable worker housing.

“In the Hawaiian islands, we’re completely separated from the global commodity cacao,” he says. “We do not touch it. It does not really influence us or change anything, other than the price of cocoa butter.”

Lydgate, his sister and his father started their foray into cacao after planting a small grove in 2002, although the family ties to Hawai‘i extend back to 1865 when Lydate’s great-great grandfather first immigrated to the then-monarchy.

Now, Lydgate Farms is made up of 46 acres, and its team of 30 includes about five people of Kānaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian) ancestry. The land gets between 50 to 70 inches of rain annually, which keeps its 3,200 thirsty cacao trees watered, and organic fertilizer is used to boost soil health. The farm relies on regenerative farming practices.

“If you’re buying from us, we’re the people that grew it,” Lydgate says. “There’s no step in between you and the farm.”

Author Megan Ulu-Lani Boyanton identifies as Kanaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian).

The post In Hawai‘i, American Farmers Believe They Do Cacao Better appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Luxury fruit—a longtime cultural staple in Asian markets—has finally made landfall in the US. Social media influencers are shelling out cash to unbox packages of exclusive produce on TikTok, and high-end retailers such as Whole Foods Market are now displaying expensive fruit on their store shelves.

Several American companies—Oishii, Melissa’s Produce, and Harry & David among them—stand at the helm of the emerging market. Their growing techniques, produce varieties, and, most notably, their price points, set them apart from the traditional agriculture industry.

While supermarket shoppers typically cough up a few dollars for a pint of strawberries, a box of six to eight Oishii Omakase Berries costs around $12 through online grocery company FreshDirect. In the US, domestic strawberries usually come from California and Florida or they’re imported internationally from Mexico.

To Oishii CEO and co-founder Hiroki Koga, the taste of his Japanese varieties are worth it—twice as sweet as the strawberries found at traditional grocery stores, he says. Koga moved to the US from Japan in 2015. Following his first bites of American produce, a “shocked” Koga made up his mind to introduce quality fruits and vegetables to the market.

He founded his vertical farm startup in 2016, where the enclosed New Jersey farm is weather-resistant, simulating Japanese climate conditions, says Koga. The facility doesn’t occupy farmland: Instead, it was once a plastic factory. Oishii recycles its water and doesn’t use pesticides.

Its team, which is made up of more than 200 employees, figured out how to keep bees happy in a sunless environment—a task that was “thought to be impossible,” says Koga—so the insects pollinate the produce. Oishii’s farm mimics daylight and nighttime, so its bees act like their wild counterparts would. Growers also monitor their health.

“That’s why our strawberries are always the exact same quality every single day, 365 days a year,” says Koga.

Foodies and new parents make up the largest consumer demographics for Oishii’s premium fruit, says Koga. But his hope is to drop the price of his products one day.

“What we’re trying to do is actually not build a luxury fruit brand,” says Koga. “Our goal from the start has always been to democratize this high-quality produce and make it more accessible to as many people as possible.”

“Our goal from the start has always been to democratize this high-quality produce and make it more accessible to as many people as possible.”

Meanwhile, Melissa’s Produce maintains a longstanding reputation for dealing in rare and luxury produce. Founded in 1984, the company in Vernon, CA serves as the nation’s largest variety supplier of produce.

“When it comes to $400 pineapples, we’re the only company in town that offers them for sale,” says Robert Schueller, director of public relations.

He’s referring to the Rubyglow pineapple, a $396 fruit grown by Fresh Del Monte Produce Inc. Comparatively, the market price for a regular pineapple is around $5, says Schueller. The next Rubyglow harvest will only yield between 100 and 150 fruits, he adds.

“The thing is that the luxury produce market is small,” says Schueller. “You’re not going to be able to grow a lot of it because you’re not going to be able to market to everyone.”

In the spring of 2024, Melissa’s Produce sold 80 Rubyglow pineapples online. More than 150 people have signed up for the waiting list for the next available batch, says Schueller.

The company’s clientele includes chefs at white tablecloth restaurants and sports stadiums. “Chefs have always been the best [spokespeople]in introducing these new varieties, especially these high-end varieties, onto their menu and onto the plate,” says Schueller.

Several other luxury produce items are planted stateside for Melissa’s Produce. About 25 years ago, the company introduced Buddha’s Hand, a citron that is particularly popular during the Lunar New Year season because it’s gifted for luck. Its season runs from September through February. Priced at $8 per pound, the citron’s average weight ranges from one to three pounds

Cherimoyas, or custard apples, carry a price tag of about $54 for a 3-lb. pack. They’re grown in California from November through April, then imported from Chile for the rest of the year.

Both Buddha’s Hand and cherimoya are grown outside in fields. States such as California and Florida provide ideal temperatures, given their general absence of frost and extreme heat.

It’s not just chefs and foodies snapping up luxury fruit. Some folks do it for the social media content, says Greg Sarley, senior vice president of merchandising at Harry & David, a food and gift company. “A unique fruit can go viral, sparking curiosity and desire,” he says.

Sarley referred to his company as “a pioneer in the luxury fruit market.” Across 1,700 acres in Medford, Ore., Harry & David grows pears, with French variety Royal Riviera pears counting as a popular offering that the company has sold since 1934.

“They require meticulous care,” says Sarley. To give the pears time to sweeten, they’re stored in the cold for at least 30 days after harvest. A 5-lb. box sells for about $40.

Meanwhile, a box of the Royal Riviera Cream of the Crop pears—depicted as “the king-sized version of our famous pears”—carries a price tag of $50 for six or seven pieces of fruit.

Harry & David works with other growers, too, including mango farmers in Arizona. The tropical fruits are picked, then packed that day, for a juicier taste, says Sarley.

In the opinion of Schueller at Melissa’s Produce, the size of the American luxury fruit market may grow in the future, but it will stay exclusive. That’s because he expects prices to remain high as growers continue producing limited batches, keeping supply low.

“If they grow more, it doesn’t mean they’re going to sell that many more,” says Schueller. “That’s why they don’t make a million Ferraris every year.”

The post The American Agriculture Industry is Making (a Little) Room for Luxury Fruit appeared first on Modern Farmer.

Like the kūpuna, or ancestors, before her, “I create a product that I just give away,” says Gaisoa, 49. So, “I expect you to stand on the front line when I have to fight for this.”

Gaisoa belongs to one of 22 Kānaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian) ʻohana, or families, tasked with farming salt for centuries. Tradition dictates that their salt can’t be bought or sold—only traded or given. But in the 21st century, the flats grapple with modern problems, such as pollution and erosion. And contrary to Indigenous customs, a Hawaiian salt-farming industry has developed, with businesses marketing the product around the globe. 

However, Gaisoa isn’t threatened by the corporate farms because they’re often motivated by profit, not cultural preservation, she says. “There’s nothing to compare.”

The Hanapēpē salt ponds are a place of legend. According to Gaisoa, they were discovered one day after a local woman went fishing and caught too many. Because Hawaiians hunt and gather in moderation, she walked the coastline, trying to give her extra fish away. When she couldn’t, she started to cry. At the same time, Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of fire and volcanoes, was visiting her brother, Kāmohoaliʻi, the shark god. Appearing from the bushes, Pele led the upset woman to the flats to teach her the art of making salt.

When Gaisoa first visited the salt patch with her father Frank Santos in her youth, she hated the activity. But once her two children, Waileia Tafiti and Piilani Kali, were born, she wouldn’t let them miss a day at the flats.   

There, each ʻohana maintains its own section. Located on the island’s south shore, the area floods during the winter, and only once it dries do the salt makers begin cultivating. Salt season is weather-dependent, but it usually takes place from May to August. 

Salt water travels underground into nearby wells, which can range from 10 to 15 feet deep. Every summer, the practitioners use buckets to remove the water, then scrape the wells’ inside walls to promote water flow.   

“You literally have salt crystals on your skin—that’s how salty the water is,” says Gaisoa. Brine shrimp also help clean the wells and sweeten the salt’s taste.

The kiaʻi, or stewards, dig for black clay, then use rocks to mold it into salt beds, which measure between three and four feet wide and eight and 10 feet long. Afterward, they bake in the sun. The entire process takes between four and six hours. After well water is poured into the bed, it crystallizes, forming layers of salt flakes. 

The fresh white salt sits at the top and is used as seasoning. The pink salt in the middle is given away, and the red salt at the bottom serves religious and medicinal purposes. 

In the days of yesteryear, salt makers would give five-gallon buckets to those who asked, but, today, it’s typically limited to one gallon. They still barter with salt, and they have even auctioned it for noble causes. However, Gaisoa doesn’t judge the few who sell their goods.

“It’s expensive to live in Hawai‘i,” she says. “If someone is selling it on the sidelines, well, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

And 2023 counted as a bad year for salt makers. “I’m not giving out any more because I don’t have any,” says Gaisoa. “There’s only been another time in my lifetime where there was a salt shortage.”

They’ve faced other problems in recent years. During the COVID-19 pandemic, county officials moved a group of unhoused people to the adjacent Salt Pond Beach Park, and their excrement contaminated the salt flats. Today, partiers who gather in their parking lot leave trash behind. Cars driving on the beach contribute to sand erosion. A 1960s-era road built by the government through the patch is now corroding, and the salt makers are working on a plan to address it. 

When the aircraft of a helicopter tour agency, Maverick Helicopters, flies overhead, they blow dust into the salt. Since 2019, Hui Hana Pa‘akai o Hanapēpē—a Kānaka ʻŌiwi nonprofit that represents the salt-farming ʻohana—has fought the company’s expansion efforts because the potential for noise, chemical runoff and pollution threatens the harvest. 

“My goal before I die is to get rid of the helicopter landing pad,” says Gaisoa. “At the end of the day, people just need to be respectful of the area.”

Malia Nobrega-Olivera, 52, also belongs to a salt-making ‘ohana in Hanapēpē. She highlighted several large-scale action points to better support them, including properly citing Indigenous elders and establishing prior and informed community consent.

At Keāhole Point on Hawai‘i, Kona Sea Salt Farm also deals with external challenges, such as strong winds and storms. During the winter, the team struggles to keep up with demand because weather slows its production. 

“Mother Nature always has the last word,” says Melanie Kelekolio, operations general manager and chief salt maker. Although the business sells its salt on the islands, the continental US and Japan, it still uses hands-on methods under Kelekolio’s leadership.

In 1999, she started at the nearby Natural Energy Laboratory, first growing microalgae before exploring salt production as a side project in 2004. Intrigued at the idea of making salt out of deep sea water, Kelekolio and a maintenance worker dug holes by hand to create their first hot house. 

Since then, trial and error has fine-tuned the oceanfront salt farm’s methodology. Now, a 40-foot pipe extending 2,200 feet deep into the ocean sends water into the operation’s solar evaporation beds. Those tunnels are covered, letting moisture evaporate under the sunlight before the salt is harvested.

“We can’t be totally traditional” and make salt in open ponds, says Kelekolio, 56. “It’s not as clean as it would have been 100 years ago.” 

And in order to sell their salt as food, the farm—owned by Sea Salts of Hawai‘i – also has to follow Food and Drug Administration regulations, which wouldn’t allow for the customary process.

The business is trying to move away from using plastic materials, although “the challenge is finding surfaces that can withstand the heat and the scope—the corrosiveness of sea salt,” says Kelekolio.

Her team has expanded to include seven full-time employees, several part-time workers and event staff—mostly kamaʻāina, or born in Hawai‘i. That aspect means “they totally appreciate the fact that we are still continuing something that is still an important part of the Hawaiian culture,” says Kelekolio.

She recognizes that they aren’t following local custom by selling their salt. But Kelekolio sees products mislabeled as Hawaiian salt at grocery stores, and she’s proud that she and others with Kānaka ʻŌiwi lineage are the ones behind their product made in Hawai‘i.

“We are actually located in a place where salt was traditionally harvested 100 years ago,” says Kelekolio said. “It really is helpful that you have Kānaka to carry it on.”

Editor’s note: Megan Ulu-Lani Boyanton identifies as part-Kanaka ʻŌiwi. 

The post Preserving the Salt Ponds of Hanapēpē appeared first on Modern Farmer.