As California warms, Gragg — a nurseryman, micro-scale farmer and tropical fruit enthusiast — looks forward to the day that he can grow and sell mangoes in Northern California.
“I’ve been banking on this since I was 10 years old and first heard about global warming,” said Gragg, 54, who has planted several mango trees, among other subtropical trees, in his orchard about 25 miles west of Sacramento.
Gragg’s little orchard might be the continent’s northernmost grove of mangoes, which normally are grown in places like Florida, Hawaii and Puerto Rico.
Northern California’s climate, he said, is becoming increasingly suitable for heat-loving, frost-sensitive mango trees, as well as avocados, cherimoyas and tropical palms, a specialty of his plant nursery Golden Gate Palms.
“Climate change isn’t all bad,” Gragg said. “People almost never talk about the positives of global warming, but there will be winners and losers everywhere.”
Mangoes may never become a mainstream crop in the northern half of California, but change is undoubtedly coming. Hustling to adapt, farmers around the state are experimenting with new, more sustainable crops and varieties bred to better tolerate drought, heat, humidity and other elements of the increasingly unruly climate.
In the Central Valley, farmers are investing in avocados, which are traditionally planted farther south, and agave, a drought-resistant succulent grown in Mexico to make tequila.
In Santa Cruz, one grower is trying a tropical exotic, lucuma, that is native to South American regions with mild winters. Others are growing tropical dragonfruit from the Central Coast down to San Diego.
Some Sonoma and Napa Valley wineries have planted new vineyards in cooler coastal hills and valleys to escape the extreme heat of inland areas. And several Bay Area farmers have planted yangmei, a delicacy in China that can resist blights that ravage peaches and other popular California crops during rainy springs.
“People almost never talk about the positives of global warming, but there will be winners and losers everywhere.”
Gary Gragg, Sacramento Valley farmer
Near the town of Linden, farmer Mike Machado, who served in the state Assembly and Senate from 1994 to 2008, is one of many growers in the arid San Joaquin Valley who have replaced some stone fruit and nut trees with olives, historically a minor California crop mostly produced in Mediterranean nations.
“We’re adjusting for survival,” Machado said.
This year things are different. Bonilla cleans homes a few days a week but only makes about $10,000 a year. Most of her pandemic aid has phased out, so she struggles to keep up with expenses.
Add to that, her youngest child turned 6 in November, making Bonilla ineligible for California’s Young Child Tax Credit. Her tax refund will be $1,083 less this year, squeezing her already tight budget.
“Sometimes I say I’m going to save money and I start saving,” she said, “but the prices go up and I can’t do it anymore.”
Advocates say California’s tax credits are more crucial now, as low-income families like Bonilla’s struggle to financially recover from the pandemic as other government relief programs end.
For instance, the federal government in 2020 expanded its tax credits to send advanced monthly payments to low-income families with children and, for the first time, included very low-income earners. It helped cut child poverty, but the federal credit expansion ended in December 2021.
Democratic Assemblymembers Mike Gipson of Gardena and Miguel Santiago of Los Angeles recently authored two bills that would expand California’s Earned Income Tax Credit and its Young Child Tax Credit.
Combined the bills would cost about $1.1 billion annually, in a year the state is predicting a $22.5 billion to $25 billion deficit.
For one thing, it's been around and isn't going anywhere. Candy corn was first manufactured in the 1880s, the same decade that brought us its wax-wrapped cousin from Atlantic City, saltwater taffy. Wild times. Go ahead and hate these vintage sugar bombs — they've survived wartime sugar rationing and two separate decades of low-carb diet trends. They cannot be killed by conventional means.
Oh, you think it's too sweet? Suck it up, Milk Dud. So are cotton candy, jellybeans and s'mores, the core team of seasonal American sweets. Too much is the point. To our contemporary obsession with thinness and LED-bright teeth, candy corn extends its blunt, triangular middle finger.
The tri-colored fusion of fondant and marshmallow does not need an actual flavor, only the binding magic of carnuba wax and, like, six different dyes. With the exception of a regrettable foray into Thanksgiving dinner flavors, candy corn has always had the popcorn balls not to pretend and to be only itself: frosting you can eat while driving or typing. Is it my favorite candy? Not by a longshot. But I have had a lot of sugar and I would like to fight.
Unlike, say, a Look Bar or Good & Plentys, candy corn refuses to be shamed into the shelves of misfit candy only your uncle asks you to pick up. Instead, it waits. Candy corn bides its time until the school supply shelves have been laid to waste. Then, overnight, it crowds the shelves of supermarkets and drugstores, a wave of neon candy announcing the season since long before pumpkin spice was a twinkle in that Starbuck's barista's eye. Do you want some? Doesn't matter. Look, there's a bag in your cart now.
Seasonal though it may be, candy corn isn't out here trying to blend into a Martha Stewart arrangement of cream-colored pumpkins and reclaimed barn wood. No, candy corn is taking down the fall industrial complex from the inside, reminding us that somewhere behind the façade of carefully arranged leaf piles, a sticky toddler is pawing the bins at WinCo or tearing at a bag of Brach's that will inevitably explode and scatter the little orange, yellow and white tablets way behind the fridge.
Candy corn shows up to your tasteful Thanksgiving in over-the-top harvest vegetable drag, its garish stripes mocking the earnest, whitewashed ceramic pilgrims on your table. Go ahead and try to gentrify this cheap-ass confection, Martha. Because you can take the candy out of the drugstore but you can't take the drugstore out of the candy. And some of us remember you're from Jersey.
Oh, you've always hated candy corn because it's so artificial? Cool story, fun size. Enjoy your fruit-sweetened gummies and know that candy corn is blowing bubblegum cigarette powder in your direction. Because unlike Frankenstein's monster, candy corn neither craves the love and acceptance of humanity nor rages at its rejection. In fact, as the annual dragging of candy corn has become its own tradition, the iconic sweet you love to hate has only grown stronger, morphing into pumpkin shapes and Easter pastels. Candy corn does not retreat.
There are, incidentally, only three acceptable ways to eat candy corn: one by one, biting off one color layer at a time, imagining an ultimately imperceptible difference between them and with full mental focus and attention to the candy's transformation into an almost buttery slurry; mindlessly and by the handful as you pass an uncovered candy dish, only realizing how many you've consumed when your fingers graze the bottom and your stomach roils with regret; and by jamming one on each canine tooth, transforming yourself into a candy vampire.
Still, I tip my Halloween witch hat to the Pinterest nihilists making candy-corn fudge, cakes, layered puddings and party snack mixes. In that lawless confectionary dark web, candy corn finds strange new forms, including the alarmingly realistic formation of an ear of corn, made by jamming the pieces into a cookie dough cob.
If you can work up the sugar tolerance and accept candy corn on its own terms, you'll know the smug joy of loving a candy everyone hates. (I see you, black jellybean gang.) Do it or don't. Candy corn does not care.
Jennifer Fumiko Cahill (she/her) is the arts and features editor at the Journal. Reach her at 442-1400, extension 320, or jennifer@northcoastjournal.com. Follow her on Twitter @JFumikoCahill.
Employers deny workers overtime premiums, ask them to work “off the clock” or take their tips.
In California, workers lost nearly $2 billion from not being paid the minimum wage in 2015, according to the Economic Policy Institute, a left-leaning think tank.
Most often the victims of wage theft are women, immigrants and people of color, researchers say; many work in restaurants, construction, hotels, car washes, garment businesses, farms, warehouses, and nail salons. These workers are among those who bore the brunt of job losses during the pandemic and have the most ground to make up.
For years, California’s lawmakers have tried solving the wage theft problem by strengthening labor laws. Most workers who file wage theft claims wait months or years before getting a resolution; only a fraction who prevail get repaid lost wages.
Usually no one goes to jail for the theft.