The truth is, I don’t love how persimmons taste. But I love the way they look. I’m shallow like that.
Is there anything more Zen than a persimmon?
But I love the way they taste in other things.
Long, long ago in an age-range far, far away, I had a roommate, Leah, who used to keep persimmons in a hanging basket in our kitchen. Every now and then she’d snatch one up and hold it to her nose. For some reason that stuck with me. They’re a beautiful fruit, both squat little fuyus and the larger, fleshier, coral-colored hachiya.
More recipes follow
So Saturday I grilled some salmon and made couscous and a lovely roasted beet and feta cheese salad. I had a fresh baguette and chilled white wine, too. There were no takers.
The Drama Teen skipped out with friends. The boy grunted his disinclination to eat from behind his gaming console. No friends were around. The chef was down in San Diego attending his own kids. I even texted the lovely ex to see if he wanted to swing by and be fed. Alas, he’d already eaten.
So I ate a plate by myself, and, feeling sorta sad, packed up the rest and tucked it into the refrigerator. [click to continue…]
