I’ve also since learned that persimmons are not exclusively Asian, despite the majority of production occurring there, with the Japanese ‘kaki’ variant being the source of the main crop produced for global consumption. These are generally split into two categories, the rounder fuyu (which I purchased) and the heart-shaped, more-bitter hachiya, which requires a bit more massaging (and/or ripening) to get to an edible state. These widely available versions, as is often the case, are only the tip of the iceberg. There’s also the legendary date plum, one of the first fruits cultivated by humans and a favorite of the ancient Greeks, the Texas/Mexican persimmon, the charred-looking chocolate persimmon, and the velvety Filipino mabolo. Last but not least is the American persimmon, which grows wild across the Eastern United States, originally cultivated by Native American tribes. These are evidently quite bitter, and eating them before they’re ripe can lead to a coagulated mass of acids and food known as a bezoar, a nasty condition (do not Google image search this, especially if you’re planning on eating in the next twelve hours) that wreaks the most havoc in animals; humans can usually break them down through the nifty trick of drinking cola. With an appearance that sits somewhere between root and poop, the bezoar can also be polished into jewelry; Queen Elizabeth I had one in her crown jewels, cast in gold and apparently given as a gift from noted Renaissance Man John Dee. This gift likely had something to do with the bezoar’s reputation as a means of protecting against poisoning. All this from a fruit that seemed pretty much worthless at first glance.
Beyond warily eyeing them during their bi-seasonal autumn/winter appearance at the borders of the supermarket fruit section, I’ve never really known what to do with the persimmon, a fruit that seems firmly (if not insistently) Asian in character. Finally, this year, emboldened by a recipe that provided a method for synthesizing these mysterious orange globes into bread form, I picked up half a dozen in Chinatown, where stores seem to be especially bountiful during the fall season. Here I disabused myself of a long-time misconception - that persimmons are mushy and/or pulpy. Maybe this has something to do with their offhand resemblance to a tomato, or a since-forgotten encounter with an overripe persimmon on a store shelf, but the ones I purchased were actually hard, with a fibrous inside that in some ways resembled a pear. Even after brown-bagging these guys for two weeks they stayed hard, and I was eventually forced to unceremoniously mulch out the semi-soft meat inside with a spoon.
I’ve also since learned that persimmons are not exclusively Asian, despite the majority of production occurring there, with the Japanese ‘kaki’ variant being the source of the main crop produced for global consumption. These are generally split into two categories, the rounder fuyu (which I purchased) and the heart-shaped, more-bitter hachiya, which requires a bit more massaging (and/or ripening) to get to an edible state. These widely available versions, as is often the case, are only the tip of the iceberg. There’s also the legendary date plum, one of the first fruits cultivated by humans and a favorite of the ancient Greeks, the Texas/Mexican persimmon, the charred-looking chocolate persimmon, and the velvety Filipino mabolo. Last but not least is the American persimmon, which grows wild across the Eastern United States, originally cultivated by Native American tribes. These are evidently quite bitter, and eating them before they’re ripe can lead to a coagulated mass of acids and food known as a bezoar, a nasty condition (do not Google image search this, especially if you’re planning on eating in the next twelve hours) that wreaks the most havoc in animals; humans can usually break them down through the nifty trick of drinking cola. With an appearance that sits somewhere between root and poop, the bezoar can also be polished into jewelry; Queen Elizabeth I had one in her crown jewels, cast in gold and apparently given as a gift from noted Renaissance Man John Dee. This gift likely had something to do with the bezoar’s reputation as a means of protecting against poisoning. All this from a fruit that seemed pretty much worthless at first glance.
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