Ube careful what you wish for

You know a crop has arrived when The Economist does a piece on it. Ube (Dioscorea alata), the purple yam long cherished in the Philippines, is indeed suddenly everywhere. From Starbucks drinks in Britain to specialty bakeries in Europe and North America, it has become the latest social-media-friendly food trend. Some commentators are already calling it “the new matcha.” Global demand is rising rapidly, and Filipino farmers are struggling to keep up.

This looks like the kind of success story we often hope for as agricultural biodiversity advocates: a neglected or underutilized crop finally finding big markets. Researchers are developing improved varieties, governments are increasing investment in research and development, and scientists are working on better propagation methods to overcome shortages of planting material. Some farmer groups have reportedly seen orders jump from hundreds of kilograms to tens of tonnes. What’s not to like?

Well, before we celebrate too loudly, it is worth remembering that similar “opportunity crops” have started on this road before. It can be a bumpy one.

The first challenge is biological. Ube is not an industrial commodity. It is seasonal, labor-intensive, relatively slow to mature, and constrained by shortages of high-quality planting material. Current efforts to develop improved varieties and rapid propagation techniques are responses to real bottlenecks, not merely opportunities.

The second problem is economic. Today’s enthusiasm is driven partly by novelty and social media visibility. Food history is littered with once-fashionable ingredients that enjoyed a brief boom before consumers moved on to the next trend. If ube is indeed the new matcha, what happens when the next matcha arrives?

Finally, there are legitimate concerns about diversity itself. Commercial success often narrows the genetic base of a crop as supply chains converge on a small number of elite varieties. Ironically, a boom can threaten the very diversity that made a crop valuable in the first place.

None of this means we should resist ube’s moment. On the contrary, it presents a rare opportunity to reward farmers, strengthen local value chains, and invest in conservation and breeding. But history suggests that the goal should not be to maximize production for a transient craze. It should be to use today’s demand to build a resilient and diverse ube sector that can survive after the craze fades.

Don’t just feed the boom. Try to avoid the bust. More tomato, less quinoa, you could say.

Brainfood: Seeds through time

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition to help opportunity crops

The latest episode of Eat This Podcast explores why the tomato, first recorded in England in the 1590s, took more than a century to become an important food. The explanation offered was that it took a combination of factors: a somewhat warmer climate, the movement of people and culinary traditions caused by the Spanish Inquisition, and its connection with another New World crop, the chile pepper. Do listen to the episode, it’s a fascinating story.

What struck me most about it was how little of the tomato’s eventual success depended on technology. Sure, glasshouses and fermenting horse dung helped, but so did luck and recipes.

Today, discussions about agricultural diversification often emphasize research, breeding, seed systems and value chains. The recent paper on the Vision for Adapted Crops and Soils (VACS), for example, lays out an ambitious roadmap to transform Africa’s Cinderella “opportunity crops” through investment in breeding, seed delivery, agronomy, markets and policy support.

There is much to admire in that vision. Many neglected crops undoubtedly suffer from decades of underinvestment. Better varieties, better seed systems and better market access could surely make a substantial difference.

Yet the tomato’s history offers an interesting counterpoint.

The tomato did not become a success in England back in the early 1700s because somebody developed an improved variety. It did not require a major breeding programme. It was not the product of a coordinated development initiative. Rather, its rise seems to have depended largely on changes in climate, cuisine and culture. People learned how to use it. They incorporated it into recipes. It found a place within evolving food traditions.

In other words, the tomato became important because food systems adapted to it, not because the crop itself was somehow transformed.

This is not an argument against VACS. Rather, it is a reminder that technological interventions are only part of the reason why crops become successful. History suggests something else is needed too.

The tomato spread because it became embedded in dishes that people wanted to eat. The chile pepper may have played a role in that process, helping to create new flavour combinations and culinary traditions in which tomatoes made sense.

For some of Africa’s opportunity crops, the principal constraint may well be genetic improvement. For others, however, the limiting factor may lie elsewhere. Middle-class consumers may not know how to prepare them. Urban markets may not value them. Food processors may not see commercial opportunities in them. In such cases, the most effective intervention may not be a breeding programme but a chef, an entrepreneur, a recipe book or a social media campaign.

The VACS paper rightly argues that there should be “no romance” about opportunity crops. But perhaps there should also be no assumption that technological tweaking is always the decisive factor.

The history of the tomato suggests that crops can sometimes become important without being substantially “improved” at all. What matters is whether societies discover compelling reasons to grow, sell, cook and eat them.

That is a useful reminder that agricultural diversification is ultimately as much a cultural process as a technological one. Though we could probably do without the Spanish Inquisition.

Brainfood: Unusual data edition