Persimmons

 

When fully ripe, persimmons have a glossy red-orange skin, similar to tomatoes', and a tangy-sweet flavor. They are available at most markets from October through March; choose fruit that is plump and slightly soft but not at all mushy.

Broiled Persimmons with Mascarpone

Ingredients

• 4 ripe persimmons

For the Garnish

• 3 tablespoons honey
• 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice
• Crystallized ginger or turbinado sugar (optional)

For the Mascarpone Mixture

• 9 ounces mascarpone cheese
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Directions

1. Heat broiler, with rack 6 inches from heat. Slice persimmons in half crosswise. Place halves cut side up in a baking dish, and drizzle each half with honey. Broil until tops are golden brown and caramelized, 6 to 8 minutes. Remove from oven; immediately drizzle 1 tablespoon lime juice over the tops.
2. While persimmons are broiling, whisk together mascarpone, vanilla, and remaining tablespoon lime juice in a medium bowl. Serve persimmons hot, each half topped with a dollop of mascarpone mixture and sprinkled with ginger or sugar, if desired.

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Here is a poem by the poet Li-Young Lee (edited out one section that isn't kid friendly). 
This poem makes Persimmons that much more exciting. We hope you enjoy.


Persimmons
By Li-Young Lee

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker

slapped the back of my head

and made me stand in the corner   

for not knowing the difference   

between persimmon and precision.   

How to choose

persimmons. This is precision.

Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.   

Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one

will be fragrant. How to eat:

put the knife away, lay down newspaper.   

Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.   

Chew the skin, suck it,

and swallow. Now, eat

the meat of the fruit,

so sweet,

all of it, to the heart.

...

Other words

that got me into trouble were

fight and fright, wren and yarn.

Fight was what I did when I was frightened,   

Fright was what I felt when I was fighting.   

Wrens are small, plain birds,   

yarn is what one knits with.

Wrens are soft as yarn.

My mother made birds out of yarn.   

I loved to watch her tie the stuff;   

a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class   

and cut it up

so everyone could taste

a Chinese apple. Knowing

it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat

but watched the other faces.

My mother said every persimmon has a sun   

inside, something golden, glowing,   

warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,   

forgotten and not yet ripe.

I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill,   

where each morning a cardinal

sang, The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding   

he was going blind,

my father sat up all one night   

waiting for a song, a ghost.   

I gave him the persimmons,   

swelled, heavy as sadness,   

and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lighting

of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking   

for something I lost.

My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,   

black cane between his knees,

hand over hand, gripping the handle.

He’s so happy that I’ve come home.

I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.   

All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find a box.

Inside the box I find three scrolls.

I sit beside him and untie

three paintings by my father:

Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.

Two cats preening.

Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,   

asks, Which is this?

This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,   

the strength, the tense

precision in the wrist.

I painted them hundreds of times   

eyes closed. These I painted blind.   

Some things never leave a person:

scent of the hair of one you love,   

the texture of persimmons,

in your palm, the ripe weight.