We have 60 varieties here, at least one of which you’ll love

The large green avocado flew past my windshield just as I turned south onto 10th Avenue from NE 96th Street. The suddenness of the verdant orb spinning through my peripheral fields caused to me slam on my brakes for a second -- and it was at that moment that I also registered the presence of two young boys, laughing and launching the heavy fruits at each other over the hoods of moving vehicles.

Luckily, my daughter, son, and I weren’t rear-ended by the car behind us, and we didn’t smash into the one in front; both must have also braked in response to the unexpected missiles. Unfortunately for the boys, and to the profound embarrassment of my daughter, I wasn’t going to let their behavior slide just because we were all safe. I lectured them in my sternest teacher voice about what criminal acts they might be held responsible for were they to cause an accident, with or without injury, during their avocado toss.

I know two people this season alone whose windshields have been cracked by falling avocados (a good reason not to park under a laden tree). The fruit, which can grow up to five pounds and be bigger than your head, certainly don’t need any extra propulsion to cause some serious demolition.

In truth, though, I was less upset about potential damage these kids could have caused than I was about the disrespect they were showing -- to the avocados, that is. As hard as they are, our avos also bruise easily, both externally when dropped and internally from their rattling pits, and then they mold or rot instead of ripening. And let’s face it, the Florida avo has enough problems, beginning with image.

The local fruit, some 60 thin-skinned varieties that are still listed in a few culinary texts as “alligator pears,” have been slow to gain not only acceptance but their deserved esteem in the marketplace. Our avos, whose exteriors come in an array of colors ranging from bright green to dull red to glossy black, are dismissed as soggy in texture (the term should really be juicy, as these are fruit, after all) and dilute in flavor.

Even plenty of South Florida home cooks, constantly presented with a sad lack of choice in our own Publix backyard, believe the petite Hass avo, a creamy descendant of Mexican species, is superior to the ones grown here, whose origins are the West Indies and Guatemala. Given the national dominance of the Hass, it might be astonishing to realize that Florida was actually the first U.S. state to grow an avocado tree.

That planting took place in 1833. California caught on more than two decades later, recording its first planting in 1856. According to U.S. News and World Report, “about 60,000 Floridians have at least one avocado tree growing in their yards. Florida’s avocado industry brings in about $30 million annually.” That is second only to California. And it is a lot of fruit: Florida avos, which have early-, mid-, and late-blooming seasons just like mangos, are available seasonally from July to March.

Yet when you do find West Indian and Guatemalan avos, both here and in countrywide supermarkets, they’re frequently stickered with the brand name “SlimCado,” which also says “Lite” on it. This ploy works because, with an average 80 percent water content, Florida avos pack fewer calories than the denser Mexican varieties -- and there’s no better way to sell a product to an American than to tout it as a diet food.

Despite public perceptions that they are fattening, avocados are undeniably good for you. Nutrient-dense, they contain more potassium than bananas and are one of the few plentiful fruit sources of folic acid. They’re high in fiber and contain a cholesterol-fighting substance called beta-sitosterol. Florida avos provide all this plus vitamins B6, C, and E -- for half the fat of a Hass.

Most of us only eat avos as guacamole, the consistency of which calls for a velvety Mexican variety like the Hass. But because our avos hold their form and don’t collapse into purée as quickly as the Hass, these more firmly fleshed varieties are better suited to marinated salads with tomatoes, hearts of palm, and onions; dishes like soups, crèpes, pastas, and omelets (yes, you can cook avos, but only lightly or they will turn bitter); and chunky muffins and quick breads where you want more moisture and less pronounced flavor.

Denisse and Peter Schnebly, owners of Schnebly Redland’s Winery, also believe in guacamole -- so much so that they recently sponsored the “Holy Moly Redlands Guacamole” event in order to break the world record for the largest serving of the stuff, which was previously set at 4011 pounds, 12 ounces, back in 2007 by the Mexican Avocado Industry in California. Drawing on four high schools from the South Dade area, along with various mentors such as super chefs Allen Susser and Michael Schwartz, the event’s mission statement was as multi-pronged as a fork, and included raising money for the schools’ culinary-arts programs as well as creating new and interesting recipes for avos.

But mostly the attempt -- pictured here and which succeeded with 4114 pounds of edible guacamole made from 12,000 pounds of Loretta and Beta varieties (that’s approximately 5000 to 6000 avos!) -- was to raise awareness, Denisse Schnebly says, of the local growers’ needs.

What exactly are those needs? At the moment, the most important one to address is survival. The Florida Green Skin Avocado industry is experiencing a lethal threat: Laurel Wilt. This deadly disease was brought south by the Redbay Ambrosia beetle in stacks of firewood. Local communities, especially those like Miami Shores, where backyard avo trees are very prevalent, must be educated about the signs and symptoms, or we are likely to face another citrus-canker affair. If we don’t want to lose healthy 80-year-old trees to Laurel Wilt paranoia, we need to know what sick trees look like and treat or destroy them ourselves as soon as possible.

To spot Laurel Wilt, look for discoloration of the leaves, particularly near the crown, and wilting or drooping foliage. (Google “Laurel Wilt Disease” for helpful Websites.) To avoid accidentally transporting the beetle, which makes its home in the bark even after destruction, don’t use anything but locally cut firewood, and don’t bring firewood from your home to a state park or other campsite. Always purchase your firewood near where you are planning to burn it.

That way you won’t just be showing Florida avocados some much-needed respect, you’ll be saving them too. If that means future mischief-makers will have plenty of ammunition for avocado wars, so be it. I can multi-task. In addition to cooking with avos, I’ve recently become pretty good at scolding kids.

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