vegilicio.us

I [heart] persimmons! (Who knew?!)

Persimmons are one of those foods that entered my culinary radar screen relatively recently, like say, kohlrabi or chayotes. I certainly don't have any family-favorite persimmon recipes, or heart-warming stories of picking persimmons from the tree in my backyard. To be honest, I generally mistook them for tomatoes.

But last weekend, I went with a friend to a nearby Persian market. Since I was in general paying closer attention to everything than I do when in the regular supermarket, I noticed the persimmons (and realized that they were not, in fact, orange tomatoes.) Having no idea what they tasted like, and equally no idea what to look for in selecting them, I just indiscriminately grabbed one.

I got home, and turned to Wikipedia (the source of all wisdom) to find out what the heck to do with this thing. Naturally, I quickly became overwhelmed, trying to determine if I had bought the intimidating "astringent" variety which is brutally sour if not ripe, or the much friendlier "non-astringent" variety which is sweet and delicious when still firm.

Then, I became a especially wary after noticing that the Wikipedia entry included a "Medical precaution" section. (Pretty sure kohlrabi and chayotes don't come with those.) Here's an excerpt:

"Unripened persimmons contain the soluble tannin shibuol, which, upon contact with a weak acid, polymerizes in the stomach and forms a gluey coagulum that can affix with other stomach matter.^[9]Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy notes that consumption of persimmons has been known to cause bezoars that require surgery in over 90% of cases."

Oh boy. What on earth have I gotten myself into? This is a fruit, for goodness sake! But unfortunately I had already Googled "bezoars" by this point, the image of which motivated me to just put the persimmon away for a while, until I was better prepared to deal with its mysterious dangers.

I'm not sure why, but today I woke with a confidence, a boldness, and I knew. Today would be the day I would eat the persimmon, fearlessly. I spent some time online trying to figure out how to eat it, but most instructions were for either puddings or breads, and only having one, that seemed unlikely. So I finally took the simple route and just cut it into quarters. My friends, it was worth the risk, of gluey coagulum, of bezoar surgery, of everything, because it was delicious. I can only describe it, to those who have not have one, as tasting similar to a cross between a mango and a plum: sweet, juicy, crisp.

So who knows, maybe the polymerization has already taken hold in my abdomen and I'm not long for this world. But if that's so, I have to admit, it isn't a bad way to go. Some die for country, some for glory. And I, for the humble persimmon! (But I'm still hoping not, of course.)

Fun with Wikipedia

As I am prone to do, I was looking at one item on Wikipedia and a dozen hyperlinks (and potentially hours) later, I am reading about the rise of the Neo-Assyrian Empire or trying to find out the respective ages of Click and Clack of NPR's Car Talk.

Today I wound up reading about henbane (also charmingly known as "stinking nightshade"), a psychoactive and potentially toxic plant (thought to have been the poison poured into the ear of Hamlet's father.)

I was quite tickled, however, to read the following, which appeared under the innocuous-sounding heading of "Misidentification":

"In 2008 celebrity chef Antony Worrall Thompson recommended Henbane as a 'tasty addition to salads' in the August 2008 issue of Healthy and Organic Living magazine. He subsequently said that he had made an error, confusing the herb with Fat Hen, a member of the spinach family. He apologised, and the magazine sent subscribers an urgent message stating that Henbane 'is a very toxic plant and should never be eaten.'"