A surprise find in the produce aisle leads to new and resurrected delights.
I found a persimmon the other day.
Until then, I’m pretty sure I’d never seen one before — not at a farmers market, or in a pantry, not growing on a tree, certainly never in a grocery in Fort Collins, Colorado.
But there it was, nestled among the “exotic” fruits, making nice with the dragon fruit and the plantains. I spotted it right away. I thought it was a tomato, although the color wasn’t quite right — a little too orange, and the skin looked too thick and why would tomatoes, a salad and grocery-store staple, be sitting next to kiwis and papayas?
I’ve had persimmons once, at a family feast in Indiana where my parents — especially my dad — were the guests of honor. My dad’s cousin’s wife made persimmon pudding (and by pudding I mean cake). Persimmons are apparently plentiful in Indiana, and all points east of Iowa, I’m told. They grow thick on tall trees, and you can buy them at grocery stores and farm stands. According to my dad, until he was the guest of honor at that family feast organized to retie bonds with relatives he hadn’t seen for far too long, he had never had a persimmon either.
My dad grew up in Indiana. His father was a physician and surgeon who married late in life and, with his wife, a nurse, established a medical practice in the basement of a big brick house near Lake Michigan. They had three children — two daughters and then my dad. My grandfather also kept a farm in southern Indiana, where he himself had been raised and where much of his family lived out their lives. He raised Belgian horses with a hired man who took care of the place when he wasn’t there.
In the summer, when school was out and long days of idleness stretched before them, “the doctor” (as my grandfather was called by everyone, even my grandmother, until the day he died — and actually, even afterward) sent his family to that farm and that extended family and three months of freedom.
They were, I believe, the best days of my dad’s life.
He lived them with his cousin, Herbie, at his side. They were kindred spirits, my dad and Herbie, bosom buddies, besties, homeboys.
Herbie is actually the son of my dad’s cousin, so although he is only a year older than my dad, he is my dad’s second cousin (or first cousin once removed). He lived in southern Indiana year round, on a farm not far from my grandfather’s farm, but even for him summer was freedom. Together, my dad and Herbie explored caves, traveled to cattle auctions and horse shows, swam in stock tanks. There were horses to ride and hollers to explore and hard work to do that seemed like privilege. They were feral, nearly, and growing.
I guess my dad and Herbie lost touch for a little while, after they went to college and entered the service, when they got married, got jobs, got babies, got busy. But then one day (can it possibly have been more than 35 years already?), my dad got a letter from Herb and a stack of photos of the old days and an invitation to reconnect.
When I finally met Herbie, when I was already an adult, he was a singular delight. He told us tall tales about relatives long dead, who even my dad had trouble finding on the family tree, and sang the praises of my grandfather with fantastic stories. (Some of them, I assume, were even true). He took us on a tour of family history — old stores and future graves and favorite haunts, including the farm and the beautiful farmhouse where my dad became Huck Finn.
And Herbie — along with his wife and parents — fed us. They served up the kind of spread you see on movies about Henry VIII or on a line of basement tables at a Midwest church potluck. Plus, persimmon pudding.
Herbie called in December and said he had received a devastating cancer diagnosis. He’s 92, he said, and has had a good life. He has chosen, he said, to forego treatments. It wasn’t good-bye. He said he’d call again, maybe after Christmas.
I didn’t buy any persimmons that day when I saw them, out of place among the exotic fruits at the grocery store, being in a hurry and not convinced I would know what to do with them. But I couldn’t shake the memories or the curiosity, so I returned two or three days later, ready to make a purchase. To my surprise, the persimmons were gone.
I, however, am not easily deterred so — convinced that if one store had them, others would too — I went on a persimmon hunt. Not a simple task in the winter months, west of Iowa. I finally found a little bag of Persinnamon persimmons at the sixth store I visited.
And tonight I’m eating persimmon pie in honor of little boys becoming men and family bonds that last through time.
What I learned
Persimmons are a tree fruit, similar to apples, with a rich red-orange peel and a pretty peach-colored flesh. There are basically two types of persimmons: oriental persimmons, which are native to Japan, China, South Korea and India, and American persimmons, which are native to the eastern (east of Iowa, according to everything I read) and southern U.S. In addition, persimmons come in astringent and non-astringent varieties. The astringent varieties are said to be completely inedible until fully ripened and soft, but the non-astringent varieties are sweet off the tree and can be eaten while still firm. The most common variety of non-astringent persimmon is the Fuyu, which resembles a squatty tomato. The acorn-shaped Hachiya is the most widely-available type of astringent persimmon. Both can be used in baking. The variety I used in the pie is a Persinammon, a relatively new variety from California. It has a slight cinnamon taste and speckled flesh. If you can’t find persimmons in the grocery store, you can order them online.
Another thing I did not know but learned while making this pie: Mace is the lacy outer sheath, or aril, of the nutmeg seed. It tastes similar to nutmeg, although it has a spicier, more intense flavor than nutmeg. It is usually ground but is also available as dried “blades.” As far as I know, I’ve never seen a “mace blade,“ but I found some whole nutmeg seeds in the spice aisle at the grocery store while looking for mace. They were about ¾-inch long and kind of shaped like an egg. Nutmeg is made from the inner seed. I’m not sure why you would buy the whole seed, although I did briefly consider doing so when I couldn’t find mace.
The recipe
Ingredients
Pastry for one 9-inch pie crust
Zest and 2 tablespoons of juice from one orange
1 large persimmon or two smaller ones (about 9 ounces)
3 eggs
1 cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon butter, melted
2/3 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons brown sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla
¼ teaspoon mace
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Line a 9-inch pie plate with crust and par-bake. (To par-bake, once the crust is in the pie plate, cover it with parchment. Fill with baking weights or dried beans; sometimes I use coins if I don’t have beans, taking care that the coins stay on the parchment paper and do not touch the crust. Then bake for about 15 minutes. Remove from oven; then remove the parchment paper and the weights. Set the crust aside and let cool.)
Zest the orange into a large bowl and then juice the orange into a small bowl. Put 2 tablespoons of juice into a blender or food processor. Remove the stem from the persimmons; cut into chunks and add to the blender. Blend until smooth. Crack the eggs into the mixing bowl and beat lightly. Add 1 cup of the puree, the cream and the butter; mix until well blended. Add the sugars, vanilla and mace; beat until well blended.
Pour mixture into crust and bake for 50-60 minutes or until the filling is set and only slightly jiggly in the center. Cool on counter; then refrigerate until firm (several hours or overnight).
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