Such a ravishing and voluptuous fruit, even (especially?) when tired and bruised. With their golden leaves and flame-colored fruit, persimmon trees are one of the glories of Mill Valley in the fall.
I planted a persimmon tree a few years ago, but it appears destined to become kindling this winter. The trunk is still roughly the circumference of my ring finger and it hasn't borne a single persimmon.
Though I haven't resigned myself to a life without a persimmon tree of my own, I probably don't need one as we get pounds and pounds of fruit from family and friends every autumn. Don't really love to eat persimmons out of hand, but they make fabulous ice cream and a wonderful pudding.
I wish I could type in the pudding recipe I tried the other day from Heirloom Baking with the Brass Sisters because it was so damp and nutty and delicious, but there are those irksome copyright laws. Having said that, I've made a lot of persimmon puddings, they're all pretty similar and you can find dozens of recipes online. My only recommendations, should you ever want to make persimmon pudding:
1. Forget about flaming. Overrated.
2. Use yellow raisins, which are juicier and tastier than the dark ones
3. Serve warm with a lot of whipped cream. Hard sauce: bad.