The first time I made hoshigaki, the Japanese dried persimmons that are massaged every day or so to even out their shape and moisture and to soften the fibers inside, was at the cooking instructor Sonoko Sakai’s home in the Highland Park part of town. Standing around a table in the garden, we washed, trimmed and peeled the fruit, tied each stem in a slip knot, then dipped the persimmons in boiling water for just a couple of seconds. By the time we finished, which took hours, more than 200 fruits swayed on a tall rolling stand in the sunshine. But in my own home, the scene was less charming: a dozen strings suspended from my laundry rack, threatening to topple if the breeze picked up.
Every day, I carried the rack outside and put it in the sunshine on a clean mat, in case it did topple, adjusting the persimmons so they wouldn’t touch. As the days went by, I became more and more attached. Armed with a cotton swab dipped in alcohol, I inspected them for any off-putting spots of mold that might form where the fruits were starved of light or air. I didn’t want to lose a single persimmon! My dogs picked up on the intensity of these vibes and became protective, lying by the fruit whenever I put it outside, guarding it from grabby squirrels and birds.
A month of this process might seem like an eternity, but everything in the kitchen is running along on its own private time scale. The kimchi fizzing in the back of the fridge. The salted lemons slackening in their jars. The yogurt souring pleasantly. I’d been worried about committing to massaging the fruit every day, but this step wasn’t as elaborate as the word suggested. I was not laying each fruit down and working out its teeny tiny knots. The massaging was much closer to an affectionate squeeze here and there, a gentle knead, a friendly check in. “Dried” didn’t seem like quite the right word either. After about three weeks, when the sugars bloomed on the surface, the fruits were much smaller than when they were fresh, but still substantial — thick and wonderfully plump, tender to the touch.
When I cut them open, they were a deep and glistening brown. Some tasted sweeter than others, but all of them had a rich, syrupy, almost floral flavor, a complicated and faintly alcoholic taste. I’d meant to have them with some cheese or with fresh red walnuts, but every time I sliced one up, I ate it just like that, a little bit at a time, letting the honeyed scent fill my mouth, wondering if I would figure out how to describe it, and knowing 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 Persimmons)
