Loquats (“shesek” in Hebrew) are recent newcomers to the Middle East: Their native home is China. But just as the almond trees in Israel always seem to bloom right on cue on Tu B’Shevat, the first fruits on my loquat tree always ripen just before the Seder.

Figs, grapes, pomegranates and dates are about the only truly native Israeli fruits. Jaffa oranges, those mainstays of Israeli export, were brought by earlier travelers and settlers; and sabras, the prickly pears whose name is synonymous with native Israelis, are not in the least indigenous. In other words, the fruits we claim as our own are really as far-flung in origin as the immigrants and children of immigrants who make up Israel’s population.

Thus, I see no reason why the loquat – one of the first spring fruits – shouldn’t become a traditional Pesach food. Possibly we could find some significance in their sweet-and-sour flavor or tear-drop shape? They’re too soft for charoset purposes, but are perfect finishing off a heavy, matza-laden meal.

I’ll be picking loquats during the holiday, hoping to get some for myself before others realize it’s loquat season. Everyone on the kibbutz knows that our tree is the best. It’s loaded with the sweetest fruit every year, and soon I’ll be seeing chairs placed strategically under the tree and pits littering the area – signs the neighborhood kids have been paying a visit. (I try to insist that they at least eat the fruit they pick, and throw only the pits at each other.)

Why are ours the best? It could be luck. Or it might be because my former neighbor, Shimshon, who planted the tree, had an in with the local nursery owner. In any case, he put the tree next to a drip irrigation line, so it gets watered regularly. My own theory is that the birds who make their nests in the tree’s upper branches keep it well-fertilized. There’s more than enough, so the birds and I have a sort of “agreement”: They eat the fruit at the top that we can’t reach, and mostly leave the low-hanging loquats for us.