If only they were gold coins and I was Scrooge McDuck

We have a holy f*&$-ton of persimmons. The Chinese women of the neighborhood keep giving them to us. On Monday evenings, a woman from down the street visits us with a cart to collect cans and bottles from our recycling bin. This week she brought a bag of persimmons as thanks. I really like her-- though the only words we share in a common language are "hi" and "thank you, thank you, thank you!" She is always smiling and she makes me smile, too.

I also really like persimmons. In fact, they are part of Andrew's and my romantic history. We visited a persimmon orchard together in the early days of dating. It's kind of our "love fruit." Ick, but true.

The thing is, we already had a bunch of the suckers from the neighbors across the street. See!? Here they are-- PLENTY of persimmons for a household of two (plus brother-in-law makes three).

We have a history of exchanging produce and such with the neighbors across the street. The Chinese family that preceded the one that lives there now used to bring us truck loads of eggs. The grandmother-- who appeared to be about 162 and had some fabulous knitted beanies-- insisted on tottering out to their front gate without the aid of a walker, or a cane, or a stick, even. She fell down a lot and was so frail that she couldn't get back up. She really should have been wearing a crash helmet instead of those beanies.

Andrew would see her from his home office window, and would run over to help her off the cement and bundle her up and back into the house. Then he would call me at work and say, "Grandma from across the street fell down again. Feel like making flan for three days? How about angel food cake? Maybe enough quiche for the entire block? Because here come the eggs!"

Within a day, her son (who I think ran a restaurant in Chinatown), would bring over two flats of eggs. Not two cartons, but two flats saran-wrapped together. We're talking upwards of 80 eggs. I don't know. The significance in Chinese culture of lavishing exorbitant amounts of eggs in exchange for scooping up fallen grandmothers is still a mystery and the language barrier prevented Andrew and I from being able to ask.

If only he had brought persimmons. I could have brought a basket of them to my office job and dropped them off at the reception desk for all to enjoy, but people kind of freak out if you leave a basket of raw eggs out at room temperature in a business-casual environment.

That family moved, the eggs are gone and I think Grandma may have passed. I wonder what happened to those rainbow knit beanies? We don't have any grandmas to rescue, but we give the new neighbors lemons from our tree, and we get persimmons. We give the lady down the street cans and bottles we were going to recycle anyhow, and we get persimmons. We can't really refuse the persimmons and risk upsetting the fragile gift-economy of the street.

But last night, some jokester left this on the front porch. No, Kashmir, it's not a bag of poo. It's more f$*%ing persimmons! There must be Chinese zombie ladies roaming the neighborhood at night-- groaning, eyes glazed, arms outstretched, dangling neon-hued bags of the things.

I vaguely remember this happening a few years ago, because I know there was a Christmas during which all of my casual acquaintances got jars of persimmon chutney.

I don't have an office job anymore. The reception desk give-away basket is no longer an option. So, I guess I'll get started on that chutney this weekend. If you also find yourself with enough persimmons to fill a small room, you could either roll around in them like Scrooge McDuck and his gold coins, or try this out:

Persimmon Chutney

1 1/ 2 cups apple cider vinegar
1 large Vidalia onion, chopped
1 large granny smith apple, chopped (I leave the peel on)
1 cups raisins
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1 large jalapeño chili with seeds, minced
1 tablespoon minced peeled fresh ginger
1 tablespoon grated lemon peel
1 1/2 teaspoon garam masala
2 1/2 cups chopped persimmons (about 4-5)

Put everything in a saucepan except the persimmons. Simmer for about half an hour and then add the persimmons. Stir and cook for a few more minutes. Cool and refrigerate. Or, if you've got pounds and pounds of the things, triple or quadruple the recipe, put the hot mixture in clean canning jars and process in a canner.