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  • The Fruit Aisle Is Getting Trippy

    The Fruit Aisle Is Getting Trippy

    On a recent visit to the supermarket, I found myself terribly disturbed by a carton of fruit. There, among the raspberries and blueberries, were ghostly white strawberries. They were the inverse of every strawberry I had ever seen—fully ripe berries with pale flesh bleeding pinpricks of red. Their seeds called to mind clogged pores in need of a nose strip. Rattled, I pivoted my cart toward less haunting produce.

    The little freaks, I later learned, are pineberries, a cultivar named for their supposed subtle pineapple flavor but far better known for their spooky hue. Slicing one open reveals an interior that is unnervingly white. They aren’t the only wacky-colored fruit in the produce section these days: Other strawberries come in pale yellow or creamy blush, pink-pearl apples are a shocking magenta inside, and there are now kiwis to match every color of a traffic light. You can get yellow watermelon at H-E-B, pink pineapples on Instacart, and peach-colored raspberries at Kroger.

    This is the era of bizarro fruit: Unusual colors are “a clear trend in the produce section,” Courtney Weber, a professor of plant breeding at Cornell University, told me. The variations in color sometimes come with a subtle flavor shift, but the difference is primarily aesthetic. People don’t buy peach-colored raspberries because they taste peachy. They buy them because they look cool.

    Fruits that are the “wrong” color are not new. Some, like the Arkansas Black apple, arise spontaneously in nature. In other cases, breeders develop them by crossing different-colored fruits. But these haven’t historically made their way to your supermarket, because growing them at the volume necessary to serve large chains is risky and expensive. Typically, produce found in big stores must be grown in huge quantities, packed and shipped long distances, and sold quickly enough to not rot on the shelf. To tick all of those boxes, breeders developed hardy supermarket stalwarts such as the Gala apple, the Cavendish banana, and Thompson seedless grapes. In many cases, breeding efforts aimed to bring out appealing and uniform color—a major reason the Red Delicious apple came to be so popular.

    Now things are getting goofy. Although breeders largely still use traditional techniques, such as cross-pollination and grafting, to produce fruit with certain traits, the process is now more efficient because of advances in genomics. “If you understand how the trait is inherited, it’s easier to make the appropriate genetic combinations to get what you’re after,” Weber said. He previously developed a purple strawberry; these days, he’s working on raspberries in sunshine hues.

    The appetite for bizarro fruit has led some big companies to invest in creating new varieties. Driscoll’s, the berry giant, developed pale-yellow “Tropical Bliss” and baby-pink “Rosé” strawberries over decades of breeding in-house. Fresh Del Monte has gone a different route: The company’s coral-fleshed “Pinkglow” pineapples have been genetically engineered to accumulate lycopene, the compound that turns tomatoes red. The fruit is sold only at a smattering of retailers in certain states (notably not Hawaii, which restricts pineapple imports). But it has been so popular that Fresh Del Monte recently suggested that the pineapple has boosted the company’s bottom line.

    You can’t go into just any grocery store and find these kinds of weird fruits. They are stocked at some mid-priced stores—Trader Joe’s, for example, sells pink-fleshed oranges—but they are far more likely to be found at higher-end groceries. At least for now: Fruit innovation beyond ghostly berries and colorful kiwis is “on the horizon,” Lauren M. Scott, the chief strategy officer of the International Fresh Produce Association, told me.  To a lesser extent, the vegetable aisle has gone kaleidoscopic too, with candy-striped beets, violet-colored green beans, and cauliflower in shades of lavender, marigold, and lemon-lime. “People love new things, but they’re also creatures of habit,” Scott said. That is, they don’t want things that are too new. For the average customer bored of regular old fruit, the barrier to entry is lower for a pink apple than it is for, say, a rambutan.

    For consumers who stumble upon them, the experience can be trippy. The new colors can come with tastier fruit—a red kiwi is sweeter than the original tart green. But color shapes our expectations for flavor, which weird-colored fruit can thwart in a way that feels novel and exciting, if not nonsensical. White strawberries look unripe, but don’t taste it. Yellow is usually associated with tropical flavors such as citrus and pineapple, so people expect a yellow watermelon to taste “like banana popsicle,” Weber said. But it just tastes like a watermelon. Likewise, he said, a yellow raspberry tastes like a raspberry.

    The golden age of golden raspberries is what happens when advances in plant breeding coincide with a cultural obsession with aesthetics that also gave us indigo-hued Empress 1908 Gin and the pastel-colored nightmare that is the Starbucks Unicorn Frappuccino. Color makes food fun, even when it doesn’t make any sense. People do it for the ’gram—or, at least, to satisfy the same craving for visual excitement that social media fosters. Even though I’m weirded out by white strawberries, I have to admit that they make a fruit platter look super chic.

    In time, the grocery store could become a bounty of blue bananas and purple mangos, and in the process, bizarro fruit may reshape our basic conception of produce. Ask an American child to draw you an apple, and they’ll sketch a Red Delicious. They will paint grapes purple. But maybe someday, they’ll consider some other colorways because of what they see in the produce aisle. Fantastical as that future supermarket seems, it would be one step closer to nature—where fruit colors are far less predictable than a clamshell of perfect berries would have you believe. Yes, white strawberries are weird. So is the fact that we expect all strawberries to be red.

    Yasmin Tayag

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  • Everything I Thought I Knew About Nasal Congestion Is Wrong

    Everything I Thought I Knew About Nasal Congestion Is Wrong

    Having caught a cold every month since my kid started day care, I’ve devoted a lot of time recently to the indignity of unclogging my nose. I’m blowing, always. I have also struck up an intimate acquaintance with neti pots and a great variety of decongestants. (Ask for the stuff that actually works, squirreled away behind the counter.) And on sleepless nights, I’ve spent hours turning side to side, trying to clear one nostril and then the other.

    Nasal congestion, I’ve learned in all this, is far weirder than I ever thought. For starters, the nose is actually two noses, which work in an alternating cycle that is somehow connected to our armpits.

    The argument that humans have two noses was first put to me by Ronald Eccles, a nose expert who ran the Common Cold Centre at Cardiff University, in Wales, until his retirement a few years ago. This sounds absurd, I know, but consider what your nose—or noses—looks like on the inside: Each nostril opens into its own nasal cavity, which does not connect with the other directly. They are two separate organs, as separate as your two eyes or your two ears.

    And far from being a passive tube, the nose’s hidden inner anatomy is constantly changing. It’s lined with venous erectile tissue that has a ”similar structure to the erectile tissue in the penis,” Eccles said, and can become engorged with blood. Infection or allergies amplify the swelling, so much so that the nasal passages become completely blocked. This swelling, not mucus, is the primary cause of a stuffy nose, which is why expelling snot never quite fixes congestion entirely. “You can blow your nose until the cows come home and you’re not blowing that swollen tissue out,” says Timothy Smith, an otolaryngologist at the Oregon Health & Science University’s Sinus Center. Gently blowing your nose works fine for any mucus that may be adding to the stuffiness, he told me. But decongestants such as Sudafed and Afrin work by causing blood vessels in the nose to shrink, opening the nasal passages for temporary relief.

    In healthy noses, the swelling and unswelling of nasal tissue usually follows a predictable pattern called the nasal cycle. Every few hours, one side of the nose becomes partially congested while the other opens. Then they switch, going back and forth, back and forth. The exact pattern and duration vary from person to person, but we rarely notice these changes inside our noses. “When I tell people about the nasal cycle, most people are not aware of it at all,” says Guilherme Garcia, a biomedical engineer at the Medical College of Wisconsin. I certainly wasn’t, and I have been breathing through my nose only my entire life. But the idea made sense as soon as I consciously thought about it: When I’m sick, and extra swelling has turned partial congestion into complete congestion, I do tend to feel more blocked on one side than the other.

    Once you’re aware of the nasal cycle, you can control it—to some extent. In fact, when I was turning from side to side during my sleepless nights, I was unknowingly activating receptors under my arm, which open the opposite side of the nose. This could be an age-old survival reflex: When we lie down on our right side, our left nostril is farther from the ground and likely less obstructed. Yogis have learned to take advantage of this, using a small crutch under the arm, called a yoga danda, to direct breathing to one nostril or the other. And an online hack for stuffy noses suggests squeezing a bottle under the opposite arm. The effect is not instantaneous, though. When I tried this recently, my arm got tired before my nose unclogged. And when I tried again with an old crutch I had from a knee injury, it took several minutes, by which time I’d already reached for a tissue out of impatience and habit.

    No one knows exactly why humans have a nasal cycle, but cats, pigs, rabbits, dogs, and rats all have one too, according to Eccles. One hypothesis proposes that this cycle helps guard against pathogens. When the venous erectile tissue shrinks, antibody-rich plasma is squeezed out onto the inner lining of the nose. Each cycle might replenish the nose’s defense. Eccles also pointed out that upper-respiratory viruses seem to prefer temperatures just below body temperature; when one side of the nose becomes partially congested, it might warm up enough to ward off viruses. Or, he said, the cycle allows one half of the nose to rest at time. Unlike our eyes, ears, and mouths, noses have to function 24 hours a day, every day, constantly filtering and warming air for the delicate tissue of our lungs. The nose’s job might not sound that hard, but consider what it has to do: The air we breathe is maybe 70 degrees Fahrenheit and 35 percent humidity, Smith said. “By the time that air goes in my nose and gets back to my nasopharynx—which is, what, maybe three to four inches—it is 98.7 degrees Fahrenheit and 100 percent humidity.” The nose is quite the powerful little HVAC system.

    But it’s fallible, too. Our noses don’t measure airflow directly; instead, they rely on cold receptors that are activated when cool air passes by. These cold receptors can be tricked by, say, menthol. Eccles has found that people given menthol lozenges can hold their breath longer, possibly because the minty coolness fools them into thinking they are still getting air. And it’s why Vicks VapoRub might make congestion feel better, despite having no positive effect on the opening of the nasal passages. The opposite may happen in a baffling condition called empty-nose syndrome, in which a very small proportion of patients who have surgery to improve airflow in their noses end up feeling completely clogged—possibly because of damage to cold receptors and other changes in sensation. The lack of a feeling of airflow can be so disturbing that these patients feel like they’re suffocating, even though their noses are perfectly unobstructed.

    To a lesser extent, we are all unreliable narrators of our nasal congestion. When patients go to be examined, a doctor might see that one side of their nose is clearly more swollen than the other—but it’s not necessarily the same side that the patient feels is more congested. “This still baffles clinicians,” Smith told me. Other factors, such as temperature, must play a role. The inner workings of the nose are complicated and still mysterious. I’ll be thinking about all of this the next time I’m lying awake at night, once again sick, once again congested.

    Sarah Zhang

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  • Will COVID’s Spring Lull Last?

    Will COVID’s Spring Lull Last?

    By all official counts—at least, the ones still being tallied—the global situation on COVID appears to have essentially flatlined. More than a year has passed since the world last saw daily confirmed deaths tick above 10,000; nearly a year and a half has elapsed since the population was pummeled by a new Greek-lettered variant of concern. The globe’s most recent winters have been the pandemic’s least lethal to date—and the World Health Organization is mulling lifting its COVID emergency declaration sometime later this year, as the final pandemic protections in the United States prepare to disappear. On the heels of the least-terrible winter since the pandemic’s onset, this spring in the U.S. is also going … kind of all right. “I am feeling less worried than I have been in a while,” Shweta Bansal, an infectious-disease modeler at Georgetown University, told me.

    That sense of phew, though, Bansal said, feels tenuous. The coronavirus’s evolution is not yet predictable; its effects are nowhere near benign. This might be the longest stretch of quasi-normalcy that humanity has had since 2020’s start, but experts can’t yet tell whether we’re at the beginning of post-pandemic stability or in the middle of a temporary reprieve. For now, we’re in a holding pattern, a sort of extended coda or denouement. Which means that our lived experience and scientific reality might not match up for a good while yet.

    There is, to be fair, reason to suspect that some current trends will stick. The gargantuan waves of seasons past were the rough product of three factors: low population immunity, genetic changes that allowed SARS-CoV-2 to skirt what immunity did exist, and upswings in behaviors that brought people and the virus into frequent contact. Now, though, just about everyone has had some exposure to SARS-CoV-2’s spike protein, whether by infection or injection. And most Americans have long since dispensed with masking and distancing, maintaining their exposure at a consistently high plateau. That leaves the virus’s shape-shifting as the only major wild card, says Emily Martin, an infectious-disease epidemiologist at the University of Michigan. SARS-CoV-2 could, for instance, make another evolutionary leap large enough to re-create the Omicron wave of early 2022—but a long time has passed since the virus managed such a feat. Tentatively, carefully, experts are hopeful that we’re at last in a “period that could be kind of indicative of what the new normal really is,” says Virginia Pitzer, an infectious-disease epidemiologist at Yale.

    Top American officials are already gambling on that guess. At a conference convened in late March by the Massachusetts Medical Society, Ashish Jha, the outgoing coordinator of the White House COVID-19 Response Team, noted that the relative tameness of this past winter was a major deciding factor in the Biden administration’s decision to let the U.S. public-health emergency lapse. The crisis-caliber measures that were essential at the height of the pandemic, Jha said, were no longer “critical at this moment” to keep the nation’s health-care system afloat. Americans could rely instead primarily on shots and antivirals to keep themselves healthy—“If you are up to date on your vaccines and you get treated with Paxlovid, if you get an infection, you just don’t die of this virus,” he said. (That math, of course, doesn’t hold up as well for certain vulnerable groups, including the elderly and the immunocompromised.) The pharmaceuticals-only strategy asks much less of people: Going forward, most Americans will need to dose up on their COVID vaccines only once a year in the fall, a la seasonal flu shots.

    Making sweeping assessments at this particular juncture, though, is tough. Experts expect SARS-CoV-2 cases to take a downturn as winter transitions into spring—as many other respiratory viruses do. And a half-ish year of relative quietude is, well, just a half-ish year of relative quietude—too little data for scientists to definitively declare the virus seasonal, or even necessarily stable in its annual patterns. One of the most telling intervals is yet to come: the Northern Hemisphere’s summer, says Alyssa Bilinski, a health-policy researcher at Brown University. In previous years, waves of cases have erupted pretty consistently during the warmer months, especially in the American South, as people flock indoors to beat the heat.

    SARS-CoV-2 might not end up being recognizably seasonal at all. So far, the virus has circulated more or less year-round, with erratic bumps in the winter and, to a lesser extent, the summer. “There is a consistency there that is very enticing,” Bansal told me. But many of the worst surges we’ve weathered were driven by a lack of immunity, which is less of an issue now. “So I like to be extremely careful about the seasonality argument,” she said. In future years, the virus may break from its summer-winter shuffle. How SARS-CoV-2 will continue to interact with other respiratory viruses, such as RSV and flu, also remains to be seen. After an extended hiatus, driven largely by pandemic mitigations, those pathogens came roaring back this past autumn—making it more difficult, perhaps, for the coronavirus to find unoccupied hosts. Experts can’t yet tell whether future winters will favor the coronavirus or its competitors. Either way, scientists won’t know until they’ve collected several more years of evidence—“I would want at least a handful, like four or five,” Bansal said.

    Amassing those numbers is only getting tougher, though, as data streams dry up, Martin told me. Virus-surveillance systems are being dismantled; soon, hospitals and laboratories will no longer be required to share their COVID data with federal officials. Even independent trackers have sunsetted their regular updates. Especially abysmal are estimates of total infections, now that so many people are using only at-home tests, if they’re testing at all—and metrics such as hospitalization and death don’t fully reflect where and when the virus is moving, and which new variants may be on the rise.

    Shifts in long-term approaches to virus control could also upend this period of calm. As tests, treatments, and vaccines become privatized, as people lose Medicaid coverage, as community-outreach programs fight to stay afloat, the virus will find the country’s vulnerable pockets again. Those issues aren’t just about the coming months: COVID-vaccination rates among children remain worryingly low—a trend that could affect the virus’s transmission patterns for decades. And should the uptake of annual COVID shots continue on its current trajectory—worse, even, than America’s less-than-optimal flu vaccination rates—or dip even further down, rates of severe disease may begin another upward climb. Experts also remain concerned about the ambiguities around long COVID, whose risks remain ill-defined.

    We could get lucky. Maybe 2023 is the start of a bona fide post-pandemic era; maybe the past few months are genuinely offering a teaser trailer of decades to come. But even if that’s the case, it’s not a full comfort. COVID remains a leading cause of death in the United States, where the virus continues to kill about 200 to 250 people each day, many of them among the population’s most vulnerable and disenfranchised. It’s true that things are better than they were a couple of years ago. But in some ways, that’s a deeply unfair comparison to make. Deaths would have been higher when immunity was low; vaccines, tests, and treatments were scarce; and the virus was far less understood. “I would hope our standard for saying that we’ve succeeded and that we don’t need to do more is not Are we doing better than some of the highest-mortality years in history?” Bilinski told me. Perhaps the better question is why we’re settling for the status quo—a period of possible stability that may be less a relief and more a burden we’ve permanently stuck ourselves with.

    Katherine J. Wu

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