Tonight, my house smells like Grandma’s kitchen.
Grandma died in 2020, though not from Covid; she’d had a wearisome 30 year plus battle with Parkinson’s. Five years in a nursing home after the death of her husband, she was ready to go home.
But before all of that, before her speech slurred so badly no one could understand her, before her tremors—“the herky-jerkies” as she called them—got so bad that they made cooking and baking dangerous for her, my grandmother was a very accomplished homemaker. She excelled in baking, ensuring that her three daughters and later granddaughters, learned certain key recipes. I wasn’t as adept at baking (nor had much interest in it at the time) so she focused her attentions on my younger sister. This paid off as my sister is a repository for many of Grandma’s recipes, recalling not just the ingredients, but also the methods and techniques not included on the recipe cards.
Certain traditional foods were important to my grandpa, so striving to be the perfect 1950s housewife, Grandma learned all of his favorite dishes from her mother-in-law. There were some German dishes (my grandpa’s grandpa had emigrated from outside Osnabruck, Germany in 1895), but also a lot of regional dishes probably from his mother’s side of the family who’d settled in Indiana during the state’s formative years.
Growing up, I ate food at my grandparents’ house that as an adult I’ve found in Pennsylvania Dutch restaurants (like pickled eggs and scrapple), but also food I’ve never seen anywhere else like Hungarian cakes (which are neither Hungarian nor cake), gooseberry pie, mincemeat, and persimmon pudding. These desserts featured annually at Thanksgiving and/or Christmas. As I kid, I tended to gobble the sweet, coconut-topped Hungarian cakes and strawberry-rhubarb pie, but avoided the tart gooseberry pie and the uber-suspiciously named mincemeat pie.
One year, my family arrived late to the weeklong Christmas to New Year’s celebration, pulling in on New Year’s Eve. We made it in time to scrape the remaining chili mac (another Hoosier delicacy) into bowls for dinner, but the typical dessert spread on the buffet had been decimated in the days prior. No more fudge, pumpkin or cherry pie. The last piece of gooseberry was reserved for Grandpa. All that remained were some uncracked nuts, stray mini-Hershey’s special dark, and some persimmon pudding.
Well into my teens at this point, I decided I was adult enough to try a little of the persimmon pudding. I don’t remember whether I’d sampled it previously, however I understood that persimmon itself was extremely astringent and would make your lips pucker if eaten without preparation. Grandma canned persimmon pulp most years along with all kinds of pickled veggies, a tomato-based “special sauce,” and preserves.
Cool Whip sat next to the dark almost burnt looking dessert in the Pyrex dish. Pudding seemed like a misnomer. In truth, it was really more of a cross between a cake and a quick bread, dense and moist. With a sigh, I cut a piece and spooned Cool Whip generously on top.
I nearly dropped my spoon at first bite. Despite a touch of grit, the texture was thick and silky. Sweet, savory, and spicy notes worked in perfect harmony with the delicate taste of the persimmon—barely discernible, but still present.
After that, persimmon pudding became my go-to dessert at Grandma’s. Once Grandpa died and Grandma moved into an assisted living facility, I took up making it on my own. Without her recipe on hand, I relied on my memories.
The first attempt failed spectacularly because I didn’t know I needed to let the fruit ripen past the point that I’d actually want to eat it. It needed to be mush—moments away from fermentation so that the sugars in the ripening process balanced out the fruit’s astringent nature.
I wised up and with some practice, I’ve gotten pretty good at making persimmon pudding—especially for someone who isn’t particularly good at baking. Of course, I have tweaked how I eat it. In my 30s, I discovered the joys of homemade whipped cream with fresh cream and a few drops of vanilla extract and maple syrup, replacing Cool Whip with the real thing. The result was, and still is, sublime on the pudding.
Last week, we returned to Indiana to visit my grandparents’ crypts. Grandma’s death had come in the early days of the pandemic when only ten people were allowed to gather at the funeral and interstate travel was verboten. In the three years following, I’d been stuck in an interrupted grief. I needed to see the dates under her name on the plaque at the cemetery she shared with Grandpa to gain closure. To know she was truly gone from this life.
My aunt, whom we stayed with during the visit, gave me some frozen persimmon pulp she’d wild-harvested. I accepted it with tears and a promise to use every last drop. She said it was good enough to eat raw by the spoonful. When we got home, I incredulously tried a small bite, waiting for the pucker. It never came.
I nearly ate the whole thing but then decided better of it. A few days, I whipped up a batch of persimmon pudding, the allspice getting away from me (ok, I was in a rush and eyeballed the measurement). Also, I accidentally overbaked it by a few minutes. In the end, drowning in vanilla ice cream (I didn’t have heavy cream on hand), it was good. The persimmon flavor was buried under the extra allspice, but I could still just place it.
Because even when you get a recipe a bit wrong, it can still taste of memories.
Make Your Own Persimmon Memories
Autumn is the best season to find this vibrant red-orange fruit in a grocery store—look for it the “exotic” fruits display or local produce (if you live in the lower Midwest, South, or Midatlantic regions). Typically, the Japanese variety (Fuyu persimmons) is what appears commercially. If you want to try the American persimmon, check out local farmer’s markets, orchards, or even try foraging as they do grow wild. (Google is your friend if you wish to read up on any of this!)
Without reservation, Persimmon pudding is an acquired taste. It is not a pretty dessert—it’s best enjoyed through your senses of smell, taste, and touch. The mix of spices can be off-putting to some. If allspice is not your jam, then use only the barest amounts. But don’t omit it altogether as it is, in my opinion, an essential part of the dish’s flavor profile along with cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. The grit or fibrous texture can be largely avoided by not using the skin, waiting until the fruit is mushy to the point you think it’s overripe, and either straining it or pulsing it in a food processor. Watch for seeds!
Use your flour of choice: whole wheat, spelt, or barley. For gluten-free eaters, oat, sorghum, or even finely ground masa work well here. The final result (depending on the recipe you follow) will be somewhere between a dense spice cake so heavier flours are fine.1
As for a recipe, numerous ones abound online and while the basic ingredients are the same, you’ll find a lot of variation in the flour-pulp-egg-milk ratio. I’m having trouble locating my grandmother’s recipe (my aunt or my sister probably has it), but this one is nice: Persimmon Pudding Cake Recipe.2
Serve generously with whipped cream, ice cream, or a glass of milk. My kids like their drowning in a bowl of whole milk. A British custard poured over it à la Christimas pudding would also be delicious.
I recommend steering clear of stronger flavored flours like rye (contains gluten), quinoa, buckwheat or bean flours as they will obscure the persimmon flavor and may interact with the spices in a weird way. Also, use a sweet white rice if you want rice flour; otherwise, rice flour may add grittiness to the texture. I’ve subbed wheat for gluten free flour 1:1 in several recipes without issue.
Unless you LOVE allspice, I’d use 1/2-3/4 tsp instead of the full tsp called for by the recipe.