Persimmon Season

The persimmon tree has become a peculiar marker of time on the farm. As an early succession tree, they were one of the first orchard canopy species to spring up. And when they did, the landscape started to take on a young forest quality, which felt enormously exciting at the time. I distinctly remember standing face to crown with a six foot tall persimmon some years back and thinking, my goodness I can’t wait until you’re older and you tower over me and bear fruit on every branch! A thought that was quickly followed by another, more alertly prescient thought, I suppose I’ll be older then too…

American persimmons are an ephemeral delicacy. Tug at them from the tree too early, and your mouth will be seized by an unpleasant tannic puckering. Instead they must be left on the branch to fully ripen to perfection in their own time - to soften in the waning autumnal sun, and grow sweeter as the nights grow chilly. And just as their bright amber skins begin to pucker and wrinkle, they will then fully release off the branch into your hand, with only the slightest touch. The taste of these fully ripe persimmons - like most mystical experiences - is hard to adequately describe. Something like a creamsicle with aromatic undertones, delicately spiced apricot jam, and honey made from goldenrod flowers. Off the branch they have a short shelf life, maybe a few days, before they begin to turn.

And so it seems, to properly enjoy the persimmon requires a constant nowness. The price of longing for a far off destination is a forfeiture of all the moments in between. Moments that are constantly available in their own time, and fully ripe for the picking. And when you do arrive at the available moment, there’s really nothing to be done except experience it. And, as proffered by the persimmon, luxuriate in it where you can.

It’s persimmon season again at fields without fences.