Persimmoning

As autumn and winter braid themselves into a textured tapestry of yesterdays and tomorrows, persimmoning is upon us in all its nectary extravagance. Hint of honey. Scent of cinnamon. Bliss.

I began my morning with the tender caress and sweet kiss of an hachiya persimmon. These photographs tell the story. But the backstory, that’s better told with a sort of collage — a prose poem approaching a lyric essay — mostly curated from previous persimmon posts. A poetics of persimmoning…

Persimmoning Prose Poem

[Our] 2023 persimmons maturing — albeit a decidedly smaller subset of the overall fruit that adorned our three persimmon trees at the beginning of the season — are just possibly going to reach the finish line. (Source: Persimmons Maturing)

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For the last several summers… [I’ve gotten] high on the hope that our three persimmon trees will bear edible fruit. I check them most days, monitor the magical metamorphosis from bloom to minuscule fruit. Day by day, the tiny green bundle swell. Little by little, they earn my hoping confidence, my persimmon optimism. (Source: Persimmon Optimism)

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But each year my dreams are dashed. The maturing persimmons suddenly, inexplicably abort. The phenomenon, “premature fruit drop”, has many potential causes, but we’ve failed to identify the problem with our trees, growing conditions, etc. (Source: Persimmons Maturing)

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[Premature fruit drop] can be triggered by a late season application of fertilizer, a sudden plunge in temperatures, or other traumatic events. Sometimes premature free drop happens for no reason at all. In our case, Rosslyn’s persimmon trees, suddenly, inexplicably let fall all of their still small, still unripened, just barely marble sized fruit. It has been each year a sort of wound, startling, discouraging, painful. But lest I invite misfortune, I will now resist worry and reside in wonder. I’ll cultivate my persimmon optimism. (Source: Persimmon Optimism)

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This year has been different. Not just the curious climate challenges, but the persimmons have not undergone a sudden and total premature fruit drop… there has been a natural thinning of the fruit, but no sudden shake off. I’m seeing this is as a positive development. Perhaps the still young trees are only capable of setting a few fruit at this stage. And so far they are doing so. The fruit are swelling. The largest we’ve ever had. Yes, still small. Not much larger than the end of my thumb. But they look like persimmons. Still green, but robust. They promise the pleasure of eating… (Source: Persimmon Optimism)

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I’ve done my part. Nature will do hers. (Source: Persimmons Maturing)

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I’m leaning into the possibility that they will endure and mature… Let nature accept and reward my persimmon optimism. (Source: Persimmon Optimism)

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At the risk of tempting fate, I can’t help mentioning that this is the latest we’ve held on to any persimmon fruit. In previous years, all of the fruit of drop by this point. This year two of the trees carry fruit. One only a few fruit, but the other, quite a few more. A… few fruit are even beginning to change color. Ripening? Time will tell. I go to sleep this evening, guardedly, cautiously, persistently optimistic that this year, the summer of 2023, the year of rain without end, will finally reward us with ripe, edible persimmons. I go to sleep this evening with at least a few remaining 2023 persimmons maturing… (Source: Persimmons Maturing)

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Some — not many — persimmon are still plumping, fueling my hope that this will finally be the year that we enjoy homegrown persimmon… one persimmon tree in particular is fruiting. A few swelling persimmons on another tree as well. (Source: Fruiting Orchard)

Optimism maturing, almost mature, swollen and blushing with anticipation that this year, this autumn, this harvest would *finally* be the one, I packed my bags and struck out on an adventure. The wily calendar swindled my day-to-day visit to the orchid to watch the persimmons ripen. Perhaps the wisdom of an unwatched kettle would prevail here? I asked Pam and Tony to keep an eye on the persimmons. To harvest them, even if still unripe, if and when a cold snap threatened. And so they have. Persimmons, still shy of their rightful harvest, were plucked tenderly and placed in Rosslyn’s kitchen refrigerator in the hopes that they might endure and slowly ripen. It’s a gamble. A fruit industry stratagem for preempting maturation for transport and market. Perhaps we’ll profit from preemptive picking. Perhaps not. To assuage the interrupted persimmon harvest, I’ve once again turned to the salve of market fresh persimmons. I’ve allowed them to ripen slowly, checking daily, and this morning was the moment to savor the ripe fruit.

I carefully cut out the leafy stem, and sniffed the inside of the persimmon. Perfection. Somewhere between the consistency of gelatinous custard and viscous liquid, the persimmon was divine. (Source: Persimmons & Seasonality)

A familiar refrain. Sublime. Sacred. A ritual ready to be celebrated with our own fruit.