If you think these fuyu persimmons seem to be looking wide-eyed off into space, you're wrong. They're looking into the future-- namely, theirs.

Shortly after this photo was taken, they were mercilessly vivisected and consumed by me, the author of this post.

I shall be doing the same to their brethren soon on that greatest of all American days of sharing and feasting-- Thanksgiving. I like to think of this as a small step in personal growth. For me, not for the persimmons.

I have historically shied away from persimmons, since my first experience with one wasn't the least bit pleasant on several accounts.

Fresh from college graduation in Southern California, I realized I still had what I referred to as unresolved "living-in-Berkeley issues." So I packed up my Volvo and headed north to live in a large Victorian house with one of my best friends from school, his sister, and four Berkeley graduate students.

It was pretty much a total disaster. None of my roommates were especially welcoming, which may or may not have been due to the fact that my friend's girlfriend, who was not particularly attractive to begin with, was extremely insecure about her hold on him. This may or may not have been due to the fact that he was a former theater major whom she asked out as he was on his way to the Gay Pride parade in San Francisco.

And when I say "not particularly welcoming," I mean cold, passive-aggressive, and downright rude.

One of the small consolations of living with next-to-no-money in a household filled with people who did not like me was the fact that this house was situated two blocks from the old Berkeley Bowl-- a place where one could choose from a mind-boggling selection of produce and come home with a bag full of beautiful fruits and vegetables for, well, next-to-no-money. As a result, there was always a big bowl full of fruit residing on the kitchen table in our happy little home.

One morning, as I was sitting at that table, nursing my coffee and poring over the newspaper, two of my housemates wandered into the kitchen, poured their own coffee, and sat down with me. They gave me a perfunctory "Good morning," and continued the string of conversation that they had been carrying on for days.

"What colour was yours this morning?" asked Helen, the nearsighted English girl.

"Black. Really, really black," replied Marci, who always had a bit of a pinched look on her face and was from nowhere especially interesting.

"You're lucky. I haven't even gotten to black yet," said Helen, who sounded more than a little envious of Marci's fecal matter.

The two girls were on a cleansing diet. All they seemed able to talk about was their bowel movements. I asked if they wouldn't mind changing the topic, since I was just about to make breakfast. Marci shot me a look.

"Those persimmons look beautiful," she said looking at the fruit bowl. "Are they from The Bowl or from the neighbor's tree? Have you tried one yet?"

I told her I wasn't sure where they were from. Surprised and encouraged by the fact that she was even talking to me, I went as far as telling her that I had never, in fact, seen a persimmon before moving to Berkeley, let alone tried one.

"Oh, you have got to try one. Here, take this one. They're amazing. You can eat it just like an apple."

So I took an enormous bite. Having no prior persimmon knowledge, I did not understand the difference between the fuyu persimmon, which may be eaten "just like an apple" and the hachiya, which must first be ripened to near mush before being consumed otherwise, their extremely high tannin levels will suck all the moisture from one's mouth, making for great discomfort and/or great pleasure from those looking on. Three guesses as to which kind were in that bowl.

As I ran to the kitchen sink to spit out the persimmon and found that no amount of water seemed to replace the lost moisture in my mouth, Marci and Helen howled.

"Oh my god, he fell for it. I can't believe he's that stupid!" is what came out of Marci's still moistened, but thin lips.

Had I known anything about persimmons, this scene could have been easily avoided, of course. Had I understood their medicinal properties, I could have actually participated in their cleansing conversations, sharing with them the knowledge that, in traditional Chinese medicine, for example, raw persimmons are used to treat constipation and hemorrhoids and that, however contradictory it may sound, the cooked fruit is helpful in the treatment of diarrhea. Perhaps, if I had known and shared this informations with them, we might have been great friends and they would have felt comfortable enough to invite me to cleanse with them.

Of course, that did not happen. After a rather dramatic episode in which the girls suddenly became mortally offended by the Mammy-motif heirloom cookie jar I kept on the kitchen counter, I was asked to leave the house. And leave I did. Gladly. My "living-in-Berkeley issues" had finally been resolved.

For years, I had always associated persimmons with the unpleasant chill of my Berkeley housemates. I have since gotten over that. More or less. Today, I prefer to associate them with the much more pleasant chill of Autumn. I still don't have a lot of experience with fully ripened Hachiya persimmons, but I really love the other kind, the ones you really can eat like an apple.

And with that, I would like to end with a little, thankful message to Marci, wherever she is:

Fu yu.

Persimmon Salad with Honey-Orange Vinaigrette

Serves 4

Where I work, we do a fresh fuyu persimmon salad and give it the Greek name Lotosalata, which is unsurprising, since we tend to give everything a Greek name with the possible exception of the Ladies' room. The term lotos is a possible reference to the Lotophagi, or Lotus Eaters, found in Book Nine of the Odyssey, who tempted members of Odysseus' crew with food that causes those to eat it to forget where they have been and where they are going.

I cannot promise that my version of lotosalata will make anyone forget anything. But it's damned good. I can, however, promise you it will be the least fattening thing on your Thanksgiving table, with the possible exception of the napkins and flatware.

Do give it a go.

Ingredients:

2 fuyu persimmons, sliced about 1/8" think lengthwise. Don't bother to peel.

1 medium-sized fennel bulb, well-cleaned and thinly sliced (or shaved) lengthwise

1/2 half shallot, treated exactly like the fennel (minus washing)

The juice of one orange

1 teaspoon of zest from that same orange (Please zest prior to juicing, thank you).

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (This is not a classic oil-to-acid ratio of a vinaigrette. Less oil works better for this particular salad.)

3 tablespoons honey

2 tablespoons champagne vinegar

salt and pepper to taste

Pomegranate seeds for garnish

Preparation:

1. Whisk together orange juice, 2 tablespoons of the honey, and a pinch of salt. Place persimmon slices in a wide, shallow dish and toss with orange-honey mixture. Let persimmons marinate for at least 15 minutes. Toss them occasionally.

2. To make the vinaigrette, I typically use a small mason jar, since the days of my brother showing me how the souls of the dead are sorted out in the afterlife with the aid of a free-with-purchase Good Seasons cruet are long behind me. Place zest, olive oil, vinegar, and salt (add black pepper, if you wish) into jar, close lid tightly, and shake vigorously, which is always somehow extremely satisfying. Shake again as needed, whether it is for your benefit or that of the vinaigrette.

3. In a mixing bowl, place fennel and shallot. Pour over vinaigrette, toss, and let sit for at least 15 minutes. Think "slaw" and you might get a clearer picture of where I am going with this salad.

4. When you are ready to serve the salad, pour off and reserve the excess vinaigrette from the fennel and shallots. Place them on the serving dish of your choice as a sort of bed for the awaiting persimmons. Remove persimmons from the orange juice and honey, shaking off any excess moisture as you go, and arrange them atop the fennel/shallots. Drizzle persimmons with some of the reserved vinaigrette and sprinkle with pomegranate seeds.

5. Serve.

6. Refrain from talking about anything fecal while at the dinner table.

7. Enjoy.

About a month ago, I wrote about Fuyu persimmons, which are one of my favorite fall fruits. This week, I'd like to extol the virtues of the Hachiya persimmon. Hachiyas are the misunderstood fruit of winter: although they are sweet and wonderful when baked into cakes and puddings, many people are afraid to eat them because they are truly awful when immature. A firm Hachiya is extraordinarily astringent and inedible. I admit that taking a bite out of one is sort of like eating an unripe bitter walnut while suddenly having all the moisture sucked out of your cheeks and tongue. But there's a very simple way to avoid this: don't eat Hachiyas until they're ripe.

Like Fuyus, Hachiyas range in color from light orange to a reddish sunset. They are easy to distinguish from Fuyus, however, because while the Fuyu looks like an orange tomato, the Hachiya is shaped like a large acorn. Hachiyas are lovely in both appearance and taste, just not at the same time. While they are outwardly attractive when unripe, they only become gastronomically appealing once the skin mottles and starts to shrivel over the soft ripened fruit. Yet while Hachiyas may not be pretty when they’re ready to be eaten, they are luscious when added to cakes and steamed puddings.

Before you eat a Hachiya, make sure it is soft and squishy as you need to wait for the fruit’s tannins to break down before the pulp loses its astringency and takes on a sweet and sugary flavor. The mature fruit has a jellylike texture, which may make them seem unappealing as a raw snack, but shouldn’t stop you from cooking with them. To coax Hachiyas into ripening, just set them out on your counter or window sill for a few days to over a week, depending on how firm they are. If you’re in a hurry, you can freeze a partially ripe Hachiya for at least 24 hours and then defrost it, which helps soften and sweeten the fruit. I tried this once and it worked okay, although the taste wasn’t as sweet as a naturally-ripened persimmon.

You can buy Hachiyas at the farmer’s market or grocery store during the fall and early winter, but as they grow in abundance in the Bay Area, you may be able to get them for free if you know someone with a tree. In my neighborhood, there are at least ten trees within a four-block radius of my house. For years, most of the fruit from these trees was left to rot each December on the ground. I always wanted to stop and ask the people who lived in these houses if I could have a few, but usually I had two toddling twins running ahead of me and so always put it off for another day. But this all changed a few years back when my neighbor George started knocking on doors and asking people if he could collect their fallen fruit. George is in his late 70s, has a big smile for everyone, and loves to chat. How could anyone refuse him? Luckily George also knows that I love persimmons (from all that chatting we’ve done over the years), so each December he now gives me persimmons by the bagful, and I, in turn, give him persimmon cake.

I came up with my Hachiya persimmon cake recipe as a way to use up all those lovely persimmons George leaves on my doorstep. If you’d like to try the sweet, nuanced flavor of Hachiya persimmons, this might be a good recipe to try because it’s fast and easy. Although the recipe calls for some fresh orange juice and brandy or cognac -- all of which nicely accent the persimmons’ sweet flavor -- you can leave them out if you don’t have them on hand. Just be sure to add in a teaspoon of vanilla if you leave out the orange juice.

So here’s to the Hachiya persimmon: a fruit that is lovely both inside and out.

Persimmon Cake with a Citrus Glaze

Makes: One 9 x 13-inch cake

Ingredients:

Cake:
1 1/4 cups Hachiya persimmon pulp
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 cup softened butter
2 eggs
1 cup sugar
2 Tbsp orange juice
1 Tbsp brandy or cognac
3/4 cup raisins or currants
3/4 cup chopped walnuts

Icing:
1 cup powdered sugar
2 tsp orange juice
2 tsp lemon juice

Preparation:
1. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.
2. Remove skin from persimmons and seed the fruit. Blend the pulp in a food processor or blender and set aside.
3. Mix flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger in a large bowl and set aside.
4. Blend the sugar into the butter until creamy.
5. Add the eggs, orange juice and cognac to the butter mixture and beat until fully incorporated.
6. Blend in the persimmon puree.
7. Add the flour to the butter and persimmon mixture.
8. Add the raisins and nuts and mix until just barely incorporated. Don’t overmix, however, as this will make your cake rubbery.
9. Grease a 9x13 pan and then spread the batter inside.
10. Bake for 20 - 25 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean.
11. To make the icing, mix the powdered sugar, orange juice and lemon juice in a bowl until you have a thick syrupy consistency. Add more lemon or orange juice if you need to thin it a bit more.
12. Spread the icing on top of the warm cake.
13. Cool and serve.

As we near Halloween, my seasonal fruit larder is changing. Gone are peaches, plums and nectarines replaced by pomegranates, apples and persimmons. Hamada Farms and Twin Girls Farm supply my pomegranates, and I choose apples from Hidden Star Orchards, Devoto Gardens and Flatland Flower Farm. As usual, I turn to my fellow bloggers for recipes and creative ideas about this fall fruit.

Elise's Simply Recipes is normally my first stop on the Internet for recipes. "Try the recipe from Elise's site," I often tell friends asking how to make pork this or beef that, "I trust her recipes and they've always turned out for me." I've had the pleasure of tasting Elise's apple butter, and am looking forward to trying the recipe for myself this year.

Jocelyn blogs about food at her site Brownie Points in Portland. I found a great recipe for Apple Spice Pancakes with Pomegranate Syrup on her site that I'd like to try. Local food blogger Fatemeh has an interesting recipe for Cocoa-Pomegranate Roast Chicken with Eggplant Stuffing that looks like it would be great to serve to guests. And wrapping up the pomegranate recipes, Stacey at Just Braise has a delicious looking recipe for Bourbon-Pomegranate Molasses Beef Short Ribs with Broccoli Rabe

Here on Bay Area Bites, Shuna gave us her persimmon pudding recipe a couple of years ago that looks tempting.

Other fall fruit recipes from the blogosphere include:

Persimmon Bread from David Lebovitz
Curried Apple Couscous from 101 Cookbooks
Cinnamon Vanilla Applesauce from the Eat Local Challenge blog
Apple and Cumin Lentil Salad from Chocolate & Zucchini
Tarte Tatin from Orangette
Roast Pork with Braised Fennel, Apples and Onions from Too Many Chefs
Quince-Pomegranate Cranberry Compote from Seattle Bon Vivant
Pomegranate, Pear, Fennel and Arugula Salad from Cook Sister
Monkfish on Wild Rocket & Pomegranate Seeds from Delicious Days
Fuyu Korma from Sourdough Monkey Wrangler
Persimmon Mint Salsa from Habeas Brulee

The first time someone asked me what a persimmon tasted like I paused for a long time. "It tastes like a persimmon," was not going to do. I tried to run through all the fruits and vegetables I knew, but nothing seemed right.

"It tastes like sex." I finally replied.

I was speaking of the Hachiya variety, about a hundred of which lined every windowsill or counter top of my then large communal kitchen. I had just come from an afternoon of 'persimmon hunting' with my mother in East Oakland. This activity involved climbing up a moldy ladder and onto the corrugated roof of a neighboring garage. Completely unsure if this roof was stable, I climbed onto it; placing my lanky self inside one overgrown, fruit laden persimmon tree. My very short mother stood safely below where I tossed her the fruits I could reach.

Persimmon hunting doesn't require camouflage but you might want to wear clothes you would to Happy Hour in a college town. A very ripe persimmon is basically a thin skinned balloon filled with orange slime. Fun.

The persimmon tree is a gorgeous thing. Basically invisible until autumn, the leaves and the fruit are waxy green. The tree sets at the first frost; leaves and conical, round, flattened or almost cubical fruit turning yellow and fire orange, announcing themselves gorgeously loud. A quick drive through lush North Berkeley the other day was a veritable persimmon tree show.

But the persimmon is enigmatic. At The French Laundry we had a small tree near the wine room and one fateful November afternoon I had a quiet but heated fight with a pastry cook. "It's ripe," Matt insisted. "No it's not," I replied emphatically and authoritatively. We stood like this, locked in a kind of Ernie and Bert argument about perception and truth staring down at the silent fruit. Finally it came to me. I sliced the persimmon in quarters and handed him a partially opaque piece.

My very tall, earnest, East Coast assistant got that terrible look on his face. I knew what the unripe persimmon was doing to him. Horrendously tannic, the immature Hachiya, (conical), persimmon is not to be taken lightly. It will pull all the moisture out of your mouth and mess you up. And not look back.

"OK you're right, it's not ripe." He conceded, defeated.

When buying Hachiyas pick fruit whose hue is as shockingly orange as you can find. Black or brown spots are ok. Place them stem side down on a sunny or warm window sill until they are completely translucent, sagging and attracting fruit flies. Prep on a large cutting board, scraping with a spoon, or other dull object, the flesh away from delicate skin. Puree this pulpy mess in a blender briefly. Store in glass or non-reactive material and lay plastic wrap or parchment paper directly on the surface to minimize oxidation.

The other variety, Fuyu, is quickly gaining popularity, probably due both to its versatility and the Hachiya's perplexity. The Fuyu straddles the sweet and salty kitchen seamlessly. While it is still difficult to pin down the taste of the Hachiya, the Fuyu's flavor can best be described as tasting like the scent of a freshly cut squash, but very sweet. Trying them out for the first time, my friend Jessica remarked, "I'm looking for the acid, but there is none, it just tastes of sugar."

While the Hachiya must be almost liquid before eating, (think of them as a vehicle for pectin), the Fuyu can be eaten rock solid or any version of softness that comes after leaving them out at room temperature. They take any French knife cut, especially the ineffable brunoise. In other words, they're fun to play with.

Here are two simple persimmon recipes, one for each varietal.

Persimmon Pudding

1 cup sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 cup whole milk
1 egg
1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted
1 cup Hachiya persimmon puree
1 splash vanilla extract
toasted walnuts (optional)
currants (optional)

1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F
2) Butter baking container thoroughly, apply parchment, flat, on the bottom
3) Sift sugar, flour, cinnamon and baking soda into a bowl, add salt and whisk
4) In another bowl whisk egg, persimmon puree, & vanilla extract until uniform
5) Create well in bowl of dries and pour in wets, mixing with whisk, wooden spoon or spatula. Right before mixture is uniform, stir in melted butter
6) Pour batter 3/4's of the way into the buttered container
7) Bake uncovered in a partial bain marie or on a baking sheet about 20 minutes
8) Pudding is done when middle is set and does not jiggle when tapped
The pudding will keep at room temperature for up to a week.
I like to serve it with cognac chantilly or vanilla ice cream.

Naked Salad

4 Fuyu persimmons
1 1/2 cups pomegranate seeds

1) Cut top out like a tomato. Slice bottom off, being careful not to take too much fruit
2) Peel persimmons, cut four pieces off core the way you might an apple
3) Dice persimmons into a shape slightly larger than the pomegranate seed
4) Mix pomegranate seeds and diced persimmon gently with a spatula
This salad will keep refrigerated for about three days but is best eaten fresh.

Dressed Salad
A vinaigrette made with a light vinegar such as Sherry, Champagne or white Balsamic and a buttery extra virgin olive or a nut oil would complement these fruits nicely
The options for green leafies are endless-- sauteed &/or fresh escarole, romaine, little gems, or any other chicories would create a bright, colorful and seasonal salad.