Hoshigaki: patience, practice, sharing.
The treat originated with Japanese monks who would dry the winter fruit in eaves of monasteries. Now, I make them in my parents’ garage during the holiday months.
It’s currently mid January and I have a bounty of hoshigaki, dried hachiya persimmons, to eat and share. I find it easy to sit and reflect on the work that goes into creating them through an extended metaphor.
When we first moved into the California house from New England, I was 10. The persimmon tree in the yard had beautiful orange fruit, so we picked them and bit in like they were apples. This was the first time I understood the word astringent. The fruit sucked my mouth dry and left an unappealing film lingering as I grimaced. Not even the dog would eat them.
The tree’s fruit sat untouched by humans for two decades, left for the birds and coyotes. In the meantime, we had other tree fruit: plums, pomegranates, lemons, limes and kumquats. I never thought about the persimmon tree as hosting anything edible.
Years later, I dove head first into the culinary arts. At my first job, we made a persimmon salad with roasted persimmon dressing. The star was fuyu persimmons, squat and crisp like an apple. Word on the hachiya was that you needed it to be as ripe as mush before it was edible. Didn’t sound appealing.
After cooking in Nicaragua for years, I came back to California with a new appreciation for using what the land giveth, like plentiful papaya or seasonal sour mimbro. I looked at the hachiya persimmon tree again. Surely, the fruit could be good for something more than just a gooey filler once overripe. I don’t remember how I found out about drying them, whether it was google or word of mouth, but I knew that I could give it a try. I’ve had a knack for making jerky on my Ronco food dehydrator and sun-drying papaya seeds into a cracked peppery spice.
Hoshigaki. The process is simple, but requires patience and habitual care. It’s a fun family project to start at Thanksgiving weekend. I peel and tie string to the persimmons with my dad, and hang them in the garage. After a week, we massage each persimmon daily for a few seconds. Yes, massage. After a few more weeks, the natural sugars release on the outside of the fruit for a protective, sweet barrier to the juicy gumdrop underneath. We make over a hundred, so there are plenty to keep at home and give for tasty gifts. While we try to add them to recipes, breads, compound butters, granola- I find that the finished hoshigaki product is best enjoyed as is.
Hoshigaki is a delicious, beautiful result of a fruit that is challenging to work with. At first glance, the fruit seems like a hindrance and better left ignored. The persimmon doesn’t turn into hoshigaki on its own, and the quality of the end product is directly related to the amount of care given during the process. The end result is awesome yet temporary. It demands starting over the following year, with the increased knowledge and requires as much patience as previous attempts.
As I face life transitions, chewing on a gumdrop like persimmon, I reflect on roles that I naturally gravitate towards, and those that require traits that are in me, but require a little extra challenge or thought as I practice and apply them.
What’s your hoshigaki practice? Maybe it is a character trait, an area that needs self love, or a habit you want to adjust.
How might your perceived challenge area or weakness actually become a benefit, or a strength? Is it situational or reframing?
With cultivation and work, polishing, massaging, how might you take on a challenge that becomes a juicy treat that you can relish for yourself and share with others?
