The first time I made hoshigaki, the Japanese dried persimmons massaged every day or so to even out their shape and moisture and soften the fibers inside, was at cooking instructor Sonoko Sakai’s home in the Highland Park section of the city. Standing around a table in the garden, we washed, pruned and peeled the fruit, tied each stem in a slip knot, then plunged the persimmons into boiling water for a few seconds. By the time we were done, which took hours, over 200 fruits were swaying in the sun on a high rolling stand. But in my own house, the scene was less charming: a dozen strings hung from my drying rack and threatened to fall if the wind picked up.
Each day I carried the rack outside and set it in the sun on a clean mat in case it fell over, adjusting the persimmons so that they wouldn’t touch. As the days passed, I became more and more attached. Armed with a cotton swab dipped in alcohol, I inspected them for any unpleasant mold spots that could be forming where the fruits have run out of light or air. I didn’t want to lose a single persimmon! My dogs picked up on the intensity of these vibrations and became protective, lying by the fruit when I put it outside, guarding it from grabbing squirrels and birds.
A month into this process may seem like an eternity, but everything in the kitchen runs on its own time scale. The kimchi is fizzing in the back of the fridge. The salted lemons are slacking in their jars. The yogurt is pleasantly sour. I had been concerned about massaging the fruit every day, but this step was not as comprehensive as the word suggested. I didn’t put down every fruit and worked out the tiny knots. The massaging was much closer to a loving squeeze here and there, a gentle knead, a friendly check-in. “Dried” didn’t seem quite the right word either. After about three weeks, when the sugars bloomed on the surface, the fruits were much smaller than when fresh, but still substantial – thick and wonderfully plump, soft to the touch.
When I cut them open, they were deep and glistening brown. Some tasted sweeter than others, but all had a rich, syrupy, almost floral, complicated and slightly alcoholic taste. I would have liked to eat them with some cheese or fresh red walnuts, but every time I cut one I ate it like this, little by little, letting the honey scent fill my mouth, wondering if I should. figuring out how to describe it, and knowing that I would go through this process every year from now on, as long as friends are willing to let me pick persimmons from their trees.
Recipe: Hoshigaki (dried persimmon)