Waste Not, Want Not

The adage smacks of frugality.  Pinch it in often enough, and there'll always be enough to pinch. Of all the Things I get to do today, I'm taking a long moment to see another aspect.

Here's my go at it.  If I use what I have, honor where it came from, am respectful of its presence, then it can be abundant in my world.  It is safe for it to show up in my space.

Not fit to eat like this

That's how I've come to save the last of the persimmons.  These late-to-ripen orbs were barely golden when we snipped them from the tree just after Thanksgiving.  The brilliant orange ones were gifts to my mother.  A whole wheel barrow load were sorted out, given away, eaten, eaten, eaten.  By Christmas all the really good ones were gone.  Those that had not ripened enough on the tree were pale and softening.  They make good pickens for the chickens, but lover of persimmons that I am, I do not eat them in this state.

Four shelves full for the food dryer

From a true desire to honor the life in this fruit sprang the idea to try drying them rather than pitching the remaining box of soggy globs into the compost.

Good for all winter!

It was magic.  Bland mush became sweet-like-a-date chips to snack on during the winter--a delicious gift.  I am abundantly fed.

Everybody Gets Hungry

Long stretch, but worth it!

The birds (even Starlings) get hungry.  The squirrels (especially the squirrels) get hungry.  A wise person pointed out to me just the other day that if I was going to feed the birds that meant Starlings were included.  Oh.  But they eat so much so fast that after a flock leaves the tree there's little left for the other two and four-legged critters.  Feeding the birds means feeding all the birds that want to show up.

They can swallow hanging upside down.

Perhaps the Persimmon tree could be called the "Feeder Tree."  It holds a bird feeder bulging with sunflower seeds.  Only 10 days ago it was also loaded with left-over persimmons that we couldn't reach as we picked or that had already been claimed with beak or tooth marks.  The critters just swooped in and cleaned up the fruit.  At least with their bellies full of persimmon, the birds don't hit the sunflowers seeds as heavily and that, of the Things I get to do today, can be put off until tomorrow.

It takes no imagination to see that this guy is full and fat.

Persimmon Panic

The persimmons are falling!  It's not like having the sky come down, but I was totally disheartened. The total crop of my favorite fruit was under 40 last year, and that was before the squirrels nipped them off, chewed a little hole in the skin and hid them all over the yard.  The actual net was closer to 10--from a tree that typically yields 300 or more each year.

Twisted, pixy magic of the persimmon calyx from the tree
that wisely thins itself

There were tiny wax-yellow blossoms all over the tree a couple of months ago.  Hope surged high that things were back on track. What I had forgotten was that the tree does an automatic thinning just before the fruits begin to grow.  All over the ground were dozens and dozens of spent calixes from the tree.  My panicked vision made it hard to see what was left to mature on this grand tree.

Baby persimmon about 5/8" across

Collecting my wits along with the Things I get to do today revealed that there is, indeed, a good crop of green, baby persimmons that will grow into brilliant orange pumpkin-shaped fruits for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Patience, Persimmon, Patience

Pretty as a persimmon--I think the saying is really "pretty as a peach."  And when one looks at a persimmon, one can see why.  A good one is not really "good" until it's super soft, a bit wrinkled, and very squishy.  Those of us who love Hachiya persimmons aren't going for the looks, however.  It's the taste that has us by the tongue.

A dear friend gifted me with twelve of these dandies a couple of weeks ago.  I shared with my mother and sister since they're nuts over them as well.  Then I set my four on the kitchen counter to watch, to squeeze gently just to check on progress, to admire, and to develop my patience.

The ugly one in the foreground is ready to eat.

Sweet insides

I've waited two weeks for one of these babies to be ripe enough to eat.  Today's the day.  In the Things I  get to do today is eat the first of four persimmons.

Gift of golden honey fruit

Unknitting Nature

It was snowing when I woke up this morning.  Green snow.  Actually, the more I think about it, maybe it was raining--raining leaves, except that it was cold enough to snow.  This was the day of  fall magic.

There are two persimmon trees in my yard, a Fuyu, that makes the little pumpkin-looking fruits that can be eaten when firm, and a Hachiya, which is more acorn shaped and must be slippery-soft to neutralize the astringent quality.  The firm persimmons are usually abundant and delicious every year.  The ones that are supposed to be like honey never quite ripen and, at their best, resemble orange mashed potatoes.  We do not eat them.

Naked by noon

The point here is that when persimmon trees let go of their leaves, they let go.  A good frost somehow goes in to the very spot that holds each leaf to its twig and unknits the connection.  The leaves fall.  It's almost like a race, each leaf not wanting to be still seen still hanging around by lunch time.  Leaves in the morning, naked by noon,  purest of magic, and frost is the master magician.

The persimmon's dress, fallen around her ankles.

The great unknitting magician

The first of the Things I get to do today is capture the magician.  I found him in the chicken's water!