Persimmon and Cardamom Sorbet and Icecream

Today, again, I curse the internet for leading me down a long, convoluted, dead-end path when I thought to write just a short shot of a piece.  Quick and easy recipe, quick and easy prose.   Bif baf bof. That’s how it was meant to be, but that is how it wasn’t.  

The catalyst was a perfectly ripe, fragrant persimmon – soft and fragile as jelly, so sweet and seductive and decadent without apology.  My first fleeting glimpse of a fruit-bearing persimmon tree came through the window of the overnight train from Paris to Rome.  It must have been early in an autumn morning.   I must have been in my early twenties.   Its bare black branches were silhouetted against the rising mist, with startling bright orange globes dripping from them.   It signaled my arrival in the warmth and crystal light of the south.  

Despite the fruit’s vulnerability when ripe, the persimmon is an amiable kind of a fruit tree.   In early autumn the leaves turn a beautiful burnt red, tumbling down as the fruit, known in Italy as cachi or kaki or diospiro (from Latin name Diospyros kaki), reach full but firm maturity.   They can hang there on the bare branches for weeks without deteriorating but are definitely not for immediate eating (with the exception of a handful of exceptional forms, all far too complicated and convoluted to fathom).  

Biting into a mature but not yet ripened persimmon is a vile, distressing mistake.   At this point in its lifecycle the flesh is kept firm by a ton of uber-astringent tannins that suck every last lingering drop of moisture from your mouth.   Molto alleppanti, is the Italian for it.  As every savvy Italian knows, the trick is to ammezzire your cachi.  In other words, you need to blet or let them ripen off the tree in your fruit bowl until they feel like balloons filled with water.  The process can be fast-forwarded by keeping them in a paper bag with a couple of apples or slowed to a crawl by storing them in the fridge.    They also freeze beautifully.

Italians know that the best things are worth waiting for, but for those of us not blessed with reservoirs of patience cachi are often sold ready bletted, cradled in a cardboard cup to protect them on the journey home.   

When I first noticed the persimmon tree from my train window, I subconsciously assumed that there was a long history of persimmon growing in Italy.   It seemed so at home here, part and parcel of Italy’s charms.  As it turns out, the persimmon is something of a johnny-come-lately.   Pliny the Elder mentioned a tree which may or may not be a persimmon in his Historia Naturalis but then all traces disappear for hundreds of years.

Persimmon & Cardamom Icecream

It is only in the nineteenth century that it reappears, imported from Japan.   At first it is a curiosity, loved for its autumn foliage more than for its fruit.   The first tree in Italy was planted in Florence’s Boboli Gardens in 1871.  Seed and plant merchants, Fratelli Ingegnoli featured it with other oriental exotica on the cover of their 1896 and 1899 catalogues.   Their catalogue covers, by the way, are just beautiful and so evocative - take a peek through these idealised pictures of the gardener’s dream here

The first commercial persimmon orchards weren’t planted until 1916, in Campania.  And from then on persimmons flourished.   Less than 40 years later, when my mother traveled through Italy as a young woman in the 1950s they were already relatively common.  That’s an impressive, benign migratory invasion.

One possible explanation is Mussolini’s alleged fondness for the cachi.  This is the point where I fell into an internet black hole.   I keep stumbling over the same story. I want it to be true, but it is always accompanied by words like that ‘alleged’ or ‘I’ve read that’ or ‘it is said that’ or ‘according to folklore’ or (and this is my favourite) ‘one of their most off-kilter claims is that…’. So far, three sodding hours later, I still can’t find the shadow of a lead to the source of the story.   I’m not giving up but if anyone reading this can put me out of my misery, I’d be delighted.  Truth or Chinese whisper, the story goes something like this:   Mussolini was convinced that the high-sugar and high-calorie content (for a fruit) of the persimmon would help to feed up a nation of soldiers, so he decreed that one should be planted in every farm or orchard or garden. Hey presto, persimmon trees popping up here there and everywhere. 

Well, maybe…but not a word of it in my top persimmon source, a fascinating paper by E. Bellini, F. Giordanu and S. Nin on the Evolution of Persimmon Cultivation and Use in Italy, given at the IV International Symposium on Persimmon in Caserta in 2008. It’s true that there have been 6 other International Symposia on Persimmon, with a seventh heading our way this October, but this is the only one to be held in Italy,  I reckon that if Mussolini’s dictatorial PR efforts don’t get a mention in any of those Italian papers dedicated to all that is pertinent to the cultivation and enjoyment of persimmons, then it is a story that stands on shaky ground.

A NOTE ON SHARON FRUIT

Sharon fruit are a form of persimmon, developed in Israel and named after the Sharon plain.   What distinguishes them is that they can be eaten when they are still firm.   How is this possible?   Science.   When first picked they would be as astringent as any other variety, but storage for 24 hours in Modified Atmosphere Packaging (MAP) removes the violent astringency at high speed, without actually further softening the fruit*.    Pleasant though they are, they can’t hold a candle to luxurious slow-ripened, melting, brown-sugar-sweet persimmons.  They are not suitable for use in the recipes  below.

*Removal of Astringency from Red Triumph persimmons through Modified Atmosphere Packaging (MAP) Modified Atmosphere (MA) is essentially a low oxygen high carbon dioxide environment. MA preserves the fruit, facilitates natural ripening and is typically achieved by exposing the fruit to MA for 24 hours.

from the Israel Agri website.

Frozen Persimmon

Persimmon & Cardamom Sorbet or Icecream

Serves 3-4

2 absurdly ripe persimmons

Juice of ½ lemon

Scant ¼ teaspoon ground cardamom

And for icecream you will also need

125 ml whipping or double cream

At least one day in advance, pop your persimmons, whole, on a plate and slide into the freezer.   Ignore until frozen solid.   They will keep happily in the freezer for a month or more.

Take the frozen persimmons out of the freezer, and quickly cut each one into eight pieces, discarding the calyx (the tough green part where the stem was once attached).   Drop the pieces into a processor or a strong liquidiser, add lemon juice and cardamom and process until more-or-less smooth.   And Roberto is your zio, you have the most divine persimmon sorbet which can either be eaten immediately, or scooped into a container, sealed and returned to the freezer where it will keep sweetly for a month or so.  

Persimmon and Cardamom Sorbet

If it’s the ice cream you are after, whisk the cream lightly and fold into the frozen persimmon mush, then eat as a sloppy semi-frozen sort of an ice cream fool or return to the freezer to solidify for later.