This is a funny story from Roots, Game and Trail.
The first time I tasted a persimmon, I had a vision of preserving this sweet, creamy fruit. I imagined a rich, apricot-colored jam filled with exotic spices spread on warm sourdough bread. It took two years to realize this vision, but it needed a reality check. Instead of sweet, creamy jam, what I got was grainy, tannic, and mouth-drying pulp. I was perplexed at how a fruit that was so sweet and delicious when fresh could turn into a grainy mess. Persimmons are the most challenging wild food I have preserved, and below I will list the successes and failures I have had in taming this wild food.
As Rob wrote in December in “December Hunting for Wild Edibles in the Piney Woods of Texas,” we encountered our largest collection of 25-pound persimmons to date. Sweet, sticky fruit hung from the tree, wrapped in a paper-thin skin that burst open as the fruit fell to the ground. As we gently shook the trees, persimmons rained down all around us. Some exploded on impact, others rolled to a halt or met their fate in the Neches River. We painstakingly gathered the slimy fruit into the plastic bags we had on hand and executed the bounty.
After returning home, the real work began. The persimmons needed to be cleaned of all the branches, dirt and leathery fruit stems that were swimming in the bag. This task was made even more difficult by the condition of the fruit. Most of the persimmons had been torn on the go, and the plastic bags were filled with chunks of sweet pulp, stems, skins, and seeds.
I missed the first two rounds of persimmon cleaning, but Maddie, Ross and Rob seemed to have a great time. Their smiles and joy seemed endless as they separated the pulp and debris by hand. This is where I learned the importance of having the right tools. Sifts, mesh bags, and electric juicers have all been used to separate the pulp from the seeds and skin, but without much success. After all this, I decided to buy a food mill. This tool streamlined the separation process and gave us the rich, sweet pulp we wanted. We are forever grateful to its inventor.
Having successfully obtained the reddish-brown pulp and the most difficult part seemed over, I decided to put the pulp in a pot with water, sugar and spices and simmer until the alchemy was complete. . Wow, was I wrong! This method works with just about any fruit or berry I can think of, but persimmons subvert the norm. Water is not a persimmon’s friend. The two go together like vinegar and milk. The moisture causes the persimmon puree to harden, creating a grainy, astringent taste. It’s the astringency that made the taste test particularly unpleasant. After just a little taste, all the moisture in my mouth was immediately taken away, leaving a dry film on my teeth and tongue…
The story gets even worse, reminding me of my most recent failure.
We were given a 5 gallon bucket of lemons and Rachel decided it would be great to turn them into limoncello.
We bought pure grain alcohol (Everclear) and she started peeling lemons. But when she tasted the skin, it was gross! Horribly bitter!
I looked online to see if there were any other reports of bitter skin, and the sites agreed that it was due to the grated white inner pith of the skin, rather than the exposed outer layer of the skin.
But that wasn’t all. No matter how thin you thin the zest, lemon zest is still terribly bitter.
As a test, I soaked it in Everclear for a while, diluted it with a little water a day later, and tasted it. It was still horribly bitter.
The next day, I went to buy Eureka lemons, brought them home, and cut slices of the peel with a knife. It tasted tangy, lemony, and… tingly. It’s not unpleasant or bitter.
Our lemons had a good taste inside and the juice was delicious, but the skin wasn’t very good.
Sometimes these things happen. Produce spoiled before processing, fermented badly, produced bad cheese, and spoiled soups, sauces, and entire meals. Try and try again.
I once tried making fish soup.
I hated it.
And a few weeks ago, Rachel made pumpkin curry.
I didn’t like that either.
But sometimes you can succeed. And the more you try, the more you discover what works. That’s how Rachel wrote her cookbook. Test, test, test. And sometimes they throw something at the pigs. Or chicken. Or a dog.
Or, if all else fails, create a compost pile.
