Persimmon sunset

The past two years, I managed 33 posts apiece. So, I've decided to go for 33 posts this year, too. Not that I think I'll make it, but that's no reason not to write.

It's early evening; the sun is setting. The Flu Phantom is hovering around my throat and forehead, so I was lying in the dark on my bed just now. A sugary-sweet smell was making it warm way out of my oven and into my room. It was very faint, so now that I've sat up to blog, it only comes through in breaks between thoughts and typing.

There are three persimmons in my oven. They are hiding in little aluminum shells, lined up near the door. They started off bright orange, and now are heated to a dusky brown. I'm told that when baked whole, they flatten and get encrusted in their own sugar. We'll see what happens after another couple of hours. For now, I'm just perfuming the apartment air.

Persimmons are a California discovery. In fact, a this-Autumn discovery. Apparently in the 50's, people realized persimmon trees are beautiful and began planting them. But what they didn't realize is that the fruits could also be delicious. You have to qualify that, though. The persimmons I have are the acorn-shaped ones. If eaten at the wrong time, I'm told it's like getting all the moisture sucked out of your mouth. They are only good when they're so ripe they feel like a water balloon about to pop. Which means that their meat is suspiciously squishy even though their taste is ridiculously sweet. So you have to be creative. Roast them, bake them into a cake . . . they're kinda like orange sugar.

Back to nap time, I think.