The Problem with Persimmons

"Mulch!" I declared confidently, pretending that my thirty-seven years in London and New York had prepared me for overwintering a garden planted with exotics in California.  So mulch we did, hoping that our banana plants and trumpet tree and the other surprises in our inherited garden will breeze past the surprising frosts which began last week. 

As gardeners, Eric and I would win prizes more for enthusiasm than for expertise.  Fortunately for us, the landscaping that someone else decided upon before we bought the property leaves us very little to do except enjoy it.  Or so we first thought.

But as season gave way to season, it became apparent that there was more to this gardening lark than first met the eye.

The gopher appeared early on, creating irritating holes in our clover infested lawn.  Then came the squirrels, whose sense of entitlement with regards to our fig tree and blueberry bush I found deeply offensive.  Armies of ants laid waste to the grout between our patio bricks.  And in October, we developed a serious case of giant spiders, just in time for Hallowe'en. 

Eric's response was swift and decisive.  He decided to wage war on the pests. The gardening shelves of our garage are now filled with a toxic mix of Bug-B-Gon, Gopher Getter, Snail 'n Slug Killer and Weed Warrior.  Organic farming is all well and good for Wholefoods, but our garden mantra would better be described as a zero tolerance approach.

Our more immediate problem is the delightful persimmon tree in our side yard (pictured above) which is now groaning with fruit.  Now, it was a brilliant idea in theory to plant a persimmon.  The bright orange fruit looks fantastically festive at this time of year.  But what on earth to do with it all?  The tree will yield at least a gross of persimmons, yet most of the recipes I can find require just one cup of pulp. 

Short term, donations of boxes of fruit to family members have helped avoid persimmon pulp smearing our sidewalk.  It seems that December is likely to be filled with persimmon cookies, persimmon pudding, persimmon salads and persimmon chutneys.  Clementines don't stand a chance in the Christmas stocking stakes.  I'm even contemplating making jam (those of you who know me will appreciate how radical this is).  How lucky then, that persimmons are the fruit of the Gods, according to Greek mythology.  I'll need all the celestial culinary help I can get.

But, as my hairdresser said, when I was sharing my concerns of an imminent fruit downfall, "These are silk sheets problems".  In this age of uncertainty, she has a point.