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learned of other pudding ingredients — brown sugar molasses and cornmeal — were the results of furtive observation.
To silently watch the preparation of food was considered a serious waste of time. Besides, boys shouldn’t show an interest in cooking. Later, as men, they could “fix” snapping turtle soup or fry catfish.
Now I know of many recipes for persimmon pudding. Persimmons have been discovered; they are in. Recently I read directions for making persimmon beer. That does not appeal to me. The final product sounds too far from the source; would the beer truly taste of persimmons?
As November terminates itself, I become a dedicated watcher of persimmon trees. December days march toward Christmas with icy mornings followed by gray days.
No, I prefer persimmons hanging on a bare tree. If that tree grows in the open, as it often does along Virginia’s country roads, it has a shape nearing perfection. From the main trunk, the branches grow out and up, followed by a graceful downward sweep that ends in delicate clusters of twigs. From theses twigs, if the tree is a female, hang the wrinkled globes of persimmon fruit. Diospyros virginiana is rarely a big tree, but it is a distinct one.
Later, after raccoons and opossums have collected their harvest and the trees are no longer decorated with fruit the size of golf balls, I can call the name of the tree if the car is
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