The Possum in Autumn

A taste of honey

I have a weakness for eating wild, foraged food. Chantarelles, catbrier shoots, gopher apples, pawpaws or curly dock, it seems that I am getting something for nothing. But it is more than that--- it is a connection to nature borne of familiarity and love. My Found Objects for this essay are some pretty, glossy, and perhaps unremarkable persimmon seeds accompanied by my (I hope more remarkable) drawing of persimmons. To me, the persimmon (Diospyros virginiana) is the uncontested queen of wild foods here in Florida, and I look forward to their orange sweetness every autumn. As the season progresses, I get more anxious about getting my share, for I am not alone in my love of persimmons, nor is their harvest concentrated in time or space.

My pencil drawing of ripe wild persimmons in October. It is best to wait for them to drop before eating them.

Here are the challenges:

(1) the only persimmon that you can safely eat with pleasure is one that has dropped, fully ripe, to the ground. A persimmon you detach from its branch, though it may shine with an orange blush, if eaten, will pucker you up like a buttonhole as the astringent tannins do their work. And it doesn't go away quickly.

(2) There is competition for this fallen harvest, and the competition has a lot more free time than you have. Possums gorge on the fruit, leaving the glossy seeds behind in their droppings, testimony to how much time they spend under the tree. Then, when the fruit falls from the grip of the stiff sepals, it exposes the moist pulp, attracting fruit flies and nitidulid beetles who breed in the (now fermenting) fruit, or wasps who feed on the sweet, slightly alcoholic pulp. A possum probably doesn't care, but you might be reluctant to eat this little ecosystem. 

Even after these opportunists are finished and all the flesh is consumed, more opportunists arrive to exploit the scattered seeds left behind by a satisfied possum or rotten fruits.  Scolytid beetles (relatives of weevils) bore holes into the seeds thereby deleting future persimmon trees one at a time.  Oddly, none of the seeds on the roof of my lumber shed harbored scolytids, but more than half of those on the ground did.  A puzzle awaits me….

(left) Intact persimmon seeds; (right) seeds that have been attached by scolytid beetles. Note the entrance holes. Many seeds became moldy following the breach of the seed coat.

(3) The trees are not concentrated in space, nor do most of them bear harvestable fruit. Most trees grow where some animal has defecated seeds, and this tends to be open areas--- field edges, roadsides, in sunny woodlands and occasionally in towns. Even so, unlike a lot of plants that are both male and female, pollen and ovum, persimmon trees are either male or female, and (duh!) only females bear fruit. On top of that, in the piney woods the trees get killed back by fire, and although they re-sprout vigorously, they rarely reach fruit-bearing size. In the less flammable hardwood forests, the dense shade has the same effect.

(4) We are accustomed to a dependable quality in our domesticated fruits because each variety is a genetically identical clone. But wild persimmon is the product of sexual reproduction, and every tree is genetically different, and thus produces fruit of easily distinguishable qualities. Once you understand this, you don't stop by just any old persimmon tree, even if it is dropping ample fruit. No, you have your own, personally vetted and approved trees that produce fruit of a size and quality that justifies the time and trouble to collect. Thus, the huge persimmon tree on the lawn of the Florida Bar Association drops a lot of small, very pedestrian persimmons, while the stressed, lopsided tree over my lumber shed drops a soft fruit the eating of which, rare though it be, is an erotic experience. My most reliable trees, both in quality and quantity are a couple that grow side-by-side on the lawn of the Maintenance Office at the Tallahassee Airport FBO. It is well worth the extra time and distance to make regular visits there during September and October, and well worth the odd looks the staff gives me as I shoo away the wasps and steal their (the wasps') persimmons.

There are more than 700 species of Diospyros around the world, many bearing edible fruit. A number also produce highly prized (including by me) black heartwood (ebony). I have unexpectedly crossed paths with Diospyros species a number of times by recognizing the distinctive, persimmon-like fruit on the ground. In Zambia, there was the massive jackalberry , so named because jackals seem to substitute for possums in loving to eat the fruit. Then in Borneo, the giant riverbank tree with its five-foot diameter trunk, its canopy way up in the sky. I would never have known it was a Diospyros were it not for the telltale persimmon-like fruit on the ground.

With so many species of Diospyros having edible fruit, it is not surprising that several species have been domesticated. The Japanese have been especially prolific in producing many cultivars of persimmons, emphasizing the lovely orange smoothness and gleam of the fruits. But to me, the texture and taste of these oversized, seemingly artificially inflated fruits pales in comparison with the wild, imperfect, often blotchy American persimmons that I share with the possums (or more realistically, they share with me) every autumn.

Sadly, persimmons don't keep well, browning and fermenting in a couple of days. Preserving them for future consumption takes a bit of work. Freezing works, but when you thaw them, they take on a dull brownish color that detracts from the total sensory experience. Mostly, I press the flesh through a sieve, discard the skins and seeds, and freeze the pulp in airtight containers. Thawed and mixed with whipped cream, or spooned onto ice cream, this is a world-class taste treat, well worth the work of preparation. This way, unlike the possum, I can enjoy the densely honeyed flavor of persimmons throughout the year.