Sometime Sunday morning, Josh & I had decided to host the small group dinner, because it wasn't going to be at the original couple's house, for obvious reasons. When we got home from Sunday Supper, we started to scramble to figure out how we were going to cook dinner for 8 people with 24 hours notice, and not enough chairs to go around. Luckily, my parents had given us a bigger kitchen
table (with a leaf!) the week before, and another couple brought some folding chairs to give everyone a seat (we threatened that if they didn't, someone would be sitting on an ottoman.). We had just enough place settings for 8 as plates, salad bowls, glasses, and silverware go, but not enough placemats & napkins, of all things. I don't think anyone noticed. The menu decided on was chicken alfredo, and I cooked & cut the chicken Sunday night for the Monday meal, to drastically cut down the preparation time Monday. Josh made brownies, his specialty. I was delighted how well everything went once everyone got here. I was also delighted everyone found the place with my directions :) The company was good, and everything went smoothly.
Josh cooked brownies, but I had another dessert planned that didn't come to fruition (pun intended). A traditional fall/winter dessert in Josh's family is persimmon pudding. I had some at the first Christmas party I went to with his family, and have had some every holiday since. I asked a few people what a persimmon was, but the best answer I could get was, 'well, it's a fruit.' Last week sometime, I found out definitively. A recipe blog I read, Simply Recipeshad none other than the traditional pudding cake as a post just as I was thinking of it. The post has a good explanation of not only what a persimmon is, but the different varieties, and the importance of ripening the fruit. It was fascinating as I continued to research it, how key the state of the fruit is when using it in this recipe. I found another article that does nothing else but poetically describe persimmons and the importance of patience:
A bite into the spiteful flesh of an underripe persimmon is indeed like sucking on a huge ball of felt or a mouthful of emery boards or a wad of soggy tea bags. A roly-poly and supple ripe persimmon is another creature altogether, though, transforming what was a shudder-inducing experience into a seductive seasonal obsession.So I bought some persimmons at the supermarket and am practicing extreme patience going on a week now. The problem I'm posed with: I don't know what a persimmon is supposed to look/taste like, besides these written reviews, so I'm crossing my fingers hoping I get it right, and hoping I don't jump the gun and end up with bitter fruit. I think there might be a spiritual lesson here.