Persimmon Tree Perseverance

Do you know how to eat a persimmon?  Or perhaps I should ask, do you know what one is? 

Unlike its popular cousins—apples, pears, bananas—the humble persimmon is both unassuming and exotic. At the market, you might find a handful tucked away in the produce section with an eye-popping price tag of $2.99 each.

I have delicious memories of my grandmother’s baking with persimmons, which used to grow wild in parts of the Southeast. So I was thrilled when we moved into a home with a mature tree in the backyard. For over 20 years, it has yielded a generous crop of the beautiful, vermillion-colored fruit each fall, which I share with local friends—once I’ve taught them what to do with it. 

Mine is the astringent variety, which seems to delight in playing tricks on the uninitiated. Around October, the fruit grows firm and alluring, its flesh a brazen orange color. (“Charm is deceptive” indeed.) If you take a bite then, your face will pucker violently, your tongue gone suddenly furry and desperate to leap from your mouth.

But nature rewards those who wait. When fully ripened, the pulp—now a muted and modest crimson—becomes soft and divinely sweet in baked goods, jam, or slurped right down with a spoon. 

This year though, no colorful persimmons heralded the return of autumn. 

We’d hired a tree-trimmer last spring, who downsized all our overgrown foliage, including the sprawling persimmon with its tiny buds. Now, after a summer of California drought, my brave tree is struggling and devoid of fruit.

Each week, I’ve continued to drip-irrigate the tree faithfully and pat its weathered trunk, declaring motivational slogans over it: a horticultural Tony Robbins. By late September, I’d given up on seeing the cheerful orbs that normally weigh down its limbs, some lingering even after leaves have been shed to decorate the stark branches like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.  

A few days ago, though, I saw my dog pawing at a bright patch of color near the tree’s base. It turned out to be a solitary persimmon, which must have grown hidden in the back and recently fallen to the ground. Already showing nibbles from other hungry creatures, the fruit was a delightful find for both my dog and me. (Buster loves ripe persimmons.) 

That lone gift renewed my hope. Our tree’s roots grow deep, and I’m praying that it will emerge from winter into abundant fruitfulness again.  

(To learn more, check out “A Passion for Persimmons,” written by Ann Crozer and posthumously published, with proceeds benefitting her beloved Ojai Library.)