[Garden Memories: XXXI]
My earliest garden memory is not even from my childhood home. Just over the fence—Isn’t that where all good stories begin?—our neighbors planted a handful of persimmon trees. In general, there are two varieties of persimmons: the crispy and the squishy (to use the technical terms).
The soft variety requires patience. Harvest and wait. Wait. Wait. And eventually, after a few days on the window sill, perhaps even a week or more, they ripen. You know a persimmon is ready if the skin remains firm but the flesh softens to the consistency of yogurt—spoon required.
Persimmons are distinct from store bought fruit in almost every way. The flavor is exquisite and delicate. Bright orange in color and tropical in smell, a well ripened persimmon resembles the flavor of a generously sweetened sweet potato or a honey drenched squash.
I remember mom’s smile when she scooped a spoonful of yogurt-y, orange flesh out with a spoon. “They’re perfect,” she said. I salivate as I recall my first taste of exotic creaminess. It was foreign but familiar, like my mouth was it’s intended home. I think I ate a half dozen that day.
I believe all my gardens since have been an attempt to recover that first persimmon experience.
