Sunday morning, I was minding my own business, kicked back in the La-Z-Boy with HIPPIE. You remember HIPPIE, don't you? My new HP laptop, who replaced aged (and departed) SHIBA. I heard the dogs making a fuss near the Shackytown and BARn border, but didn't dwell on it. If I stopped what I was doing, to worry every time I heard those fleabags, I'd have a Nexium IV running full-bore, while popping Prilosec like candy.
Noon was nearing when I heard THUMP THUMP THUMP on my front door. What in the Not-Heaven? I most certainly was not expecting company. I hadn't noticed a car coming up the driveway over the top of HIPPIE'S screen. Which meant it was too late to turn off the TV and run into the bedroom and pretend nobody was home. Crap! I was stuck answering the door, or sitting there in the La-Z-Boy until some maniac walked over to the front window and cupped his hands around his face and peered inside.
I hoisted myself out of the chair (No Furniture For Old Women, that La-Z-Boy) and mosied to the front door. Opening it a crack, I saw a medium-sized man standing on the porch. He reminded me of an aging Boy Scout, or a hiker lost off trail looking for berries. He was wearing a t-shirt, cargo shorts, and hat like Lt. Col. Henry Blake on MASH.
"Oh, hi Val. Is Hick home?"
"No. He's at his Storage Unit Store in town."
"Oh. I thought maybe he could tell me what this was..."
I had been running through my known residents of our enclave, trying to place this guy as one who belongs here. I figured as strong as my weirdo magnet is, it still wouldn't pull complete strangers off the main road and two miles into my territory. Because he obviously knew Hick, and felt comfortable pounding on his door at the crack of almost-noon on a Sunday, and because he was obviously not a church-goer, and knew that neither was Hick...I pegged him as Rip, the husband of Bev, our back-creek neighbor.
Rip held out a twig and a tree branch. Each had a small fruit attached. Orange. About the diameter of a quarter, or a 50-cent coin.
"We found these in the yard. We didn't have them last year. I'm going to confess. I was a bad boy, and left the water running overnight. I guess they need moisture to grow. I tried one, and they taste like a combination of a nectarine and a peach, with a little honey thrown in. They're overripe."
"Oh! Those are persimmons. I think they're supposed to be mushy."
"REALLY! Are they native to Missouri?"
"I don't know about that, but they grow in Missouri. I've seen them all my life. My grandma had a big persimmon tree at the edge of her hog lot. The cousins and I would eat the ones that dropped off in the yard. Don't eat the skin, though! It's sour!"
"My wife is going to make jam. She picked up a whole bunch of them."
"I've never heard of that, but I guess you could. Supposedly, the shape of the seeds can predict the winter. A spoon for snow, a knife for ice, and I don't know about a fork. You can look it up online."
"Okay, then. Thank you. I'll be getting back home, and tell her what they are."
With that, Rip went down the porch steps, spoke to a frolicking Juno, and headed down Shackytown Boulevard. I don't know if he has a 4-wheeler, or drove his car over and parked in the BARn field, looking for Hick amongst his outbuildings.
Not lost on me was the fact that Rip knew it was ME, rocking those pajama pants and short-sleeved button shirt, in bare feet with bed-head. I've only met him once, when he pretty-much twisted my arm to get inside and use my internet connection to load something on his laptop. And the day after that, my internet went down! No such problem this time, so I suppose Rip is off the hook as causing that former outage.
Also, I found it odd that Rip had no idea what this magical fruit was, but he ATE one, and his wife set about collecting them to make jam!
Never a dull moment. Even when Hick is away.
Well you stated my comment in your last sentence, I'm pretty sure most people would identify something before eating rather than eating and then going to a neighbor to ask what it was.
ReplyDeleteI guess I now know how the first oyster was sampled, "What the heck is this, it looks disgusting?" "I don't know, eat the dang thing and see if it is as disgusting as it looks."
As we are learning, Rip and Bev are not "most people." I won't try an oyster, no matter how many people have proven it edible.
DeleteYup, my wife (a Hoosier) said they had persimmons and they ate them just as you advised, Val. But no jam for them. They made and loved persimmon pudding. Don't ask me for the recipe, I've never had a taste of it. Now if you'd like one for prickly pear jelly . . .
ReplyDeleteI've never heard of the pudding, either. Offering me a recipe is like offering Hick a napkin. I might take it, but chances that I'd use it are slim.
DeletePersimmons in a fifty cent size? I see them on trees here in Adelaide and they're the size of apples, slightly flattened. like a big tomato. When they are bright orange and fully ripe you almost can't see them because the tree foliage is also reddish orange. The fruit is rich in Vitamin A, very easily digested when fully ripe to almost a gel consistency, so is an excellent first food for babies, just like mashed, fully ripe bananas. I've never heard of anyone making jam from them, but that doesn't mean it can't be done.
ReplyDeleteYou must have a different variety there. I've never seen one that big around these parts!
DeleteYou Aussies are like Texans, everything is bigger!
DeleteSometimes, after we'd eaten our fill, my only boy cousin would start a persimmon war with us five girls. I am SO GLAD we didn't have the big ones!
DeleteThe persimmon season here is quite short and around mid-late autumn. Next time I see them in the shops I'll buy one and photograph it with a ruler so you can see. Unless your fifty-cent pieces are three inches wide? Because then I won't bother.
DeleteI don't have a 50-cent piece laying around to measure, because they're not too common when getting back change. They don't fit into machines. A quarter is 23 mm when measured by my plastic 30-year-old ruler, just shy of 1 inch.
DeleteAha! Google says our 50-cent piece is 30.61 mm (1.205 in).
So, yes. I would like to see a giant persimmon when it's convenient for you. It will be like seeing the Galapagos Tortoise of the persimmon world!
The only thing I'm sure of about persimmons is that they usually aren't ripe until after frost. And, I'm sure you probably haven't had a frost yet.
ReplyDeleteThat's what I thought, too. The lowest we've gone is the 50s overnight, last week. Same with checking the seeds for winter weather predictions. After the first frost.
DeleteThe persimmons he was holding LOOKED like they were ready. Kind of wrinkly, dusty-colored over the orange hue. I'm sure if they weren't ripe, he would have been all puckered up from the sourness, and described their taste differently.
I didn't taste them (he didn't offer!), so I have no further clues to this mystery. Maybe Rip and Bev live in a microclimate where their persimmons got frost. Or maybe they fanned cold air from a freezer on the trees! That would be a mild tale compared to some of what Hick says they do. They're friendly and likeable, though. And always seeking Hick's advice.
This post at first startled me that some guy would hold something in his hand and you opened the door. Then it made me nostalgic for the ginko tree outside my classroom. The neighborhood Asian grandmas used to collect the persimmons. Boy did they stink when they rotted.
ReplyDeleteI shouldn't have told him Hick was in town, either! I've never smelled rotted persimmons. We have one tree, in the goat pen, and the goats love them! I could barely get to one when it dropped, for the seed prediction thingy, before a goat rushed over to eat it as soon as it fell. Even when I had The Pony shaking the tree to make them fall.
Delete