A Box of Persimmons

I was given a box of persimmons. There were a lot of unasked for and unexpected things that came with the box of persimmons, one of which was this: "they don't have much flavor." He was right. Smell, though.

There were the tiny black specks buried in their flesh as if they had just come in barefoot from a particularly old deck. Actually, they looked more like insect eggs. So I entered "tiny black specks" into google, and came up only with several people complaining about black spots on the outside, on those forums where you ask a question and (hopefully) get a response. (I continue to remain wilfully ignorant of where this question-and-answer content comes from, because I can't imagine who would actually ask the questions. It's easy to imagine the answerers--The Internet has a major infestation of them.) Lacking a definitive answer after ten minutes of research (that is always the criterion), I convinced myself that the specks were nothing. (Nothing is amazing. I like to do a lot of it.) And if not that wonderful soldering iron to the brain of an idiom, then they were "precipitated tannins." I read that somewhere about overripe persimmons, which these are.

There was the bite into obcenity one yielded to me. It was the sweet part of my lunch. I was in a car. I chucked the wounded fruit into my teacup to save it for persimmon bread. I always make a gesture of saving everything: vegetable scraps, leftovers, half-full cans of coconut milk, thickened gravy. All of these things eventually rot in the fridge, except for the vegetable scraps (kept in the freezer), which I strangely enough do use for soup.

There was the indescribably monstrous texture of persimmon pie. No, not the kind that's made like apple pie--the kind that's made like pumpkin pie.

Before I disgust us both any more, let me assure you that persimmon bread was good. I made two loaves of it, and ate all of it. It too was as alien as befits a fruit named Diospyros: The bread browned unnaturaly quickly, so quickly I was afraid I would end up with a burnt exterior and a goopy interior. Once baked the upper half of the inside was lighter than the deep brown lower half. Why? As far as I'm concerned, persimmons are an unknowable function in persimmon bread, lending something you can't quite taste to the finished product. Yeah, okay, that's an overstatement. It changes the texture, and I could find out how by baking the same "bread" (i.e. cake) without the persimmons.

I would have another batch of persimmon bread, but my father threw them out. I can't say that it was a bad idea at all. Given the chance, I probably would have saved them until they were black piles of snot. It was taking me a long time to understand that although they were pretty, they were mostly flavorless, and going bad quickly. Here is what happened to the persimmons before ever being used: First, I left them in the car for most of a week. I was commuting in the car every day for four days. While I was working, everything else got forgotten about, including the persimmons. Then they sat on the kitchen table for two days, while I kept telling myself that I would turn them all into something baked. Finally, I used five of them in the persimmon bread. By this time many were turning a troubling umber shade, and some had large black spots (not problematic in themselves, but indicative of ripening), and some were rotting into the cardboard.

Just those five persimmons made a lot of persimmon bread, which took a few days to eat. I probably would have gone on like that, in a charade of frugality, using every single last persimmon by making another batch of persimmon bread every three days. My father inadvertantly saved me from all that.

There is a reason those of us who can waste, waste so much: Along with the past-prime food, obsolesced technology, and high-maintenace cars, misery is thrown out. There are those, including myself, who romanticize not wasting. We would like to live in a world where everything has a place. Of course, there is another way out of misery, but it involves not only foresight, but also the impossible murder of the part of you that yields: don't accumulate anything you will waste.

Green Hubbard Pie

Well, I finally got around to making pie with a Green Hubbard. Unfortunately, I forgot to take any photos. The Green Hubbard may or may not have tasted better in pie than Pie Pumpkin or Delicata. It was good. At some level one just needs some orange shit with the right texture to sweeten, add eggs to, and bake into a custard pie filling. I did get a hint of something disagreeable in the Green Hubbard's flavor. I don't know what, exactly.

Blogger fails at captioning, so the captions will just be text below the photo. This lighting is shit, and the pie looks, if I do say so myself, unappetizing. It is, however, the finest squash pie I've ever made. Whether this is due to the variety of squash or some slight differences in ingredient proportions, I couldn't say. The texture was perfect. The next pair of pies I made from this same squash were much runnier, unfortunately, because coconut milk varies in thickness from can to can, apparently. Or maybe it doesn't really, and I just got a freakishly thick can the first time. Which is to say it does.

When uncertain of what pose to strike in a photo, go for the directional mouth-opening, indicating that you wish to eat the object your mouth is pointed at. Interestingly (the most pointless adjective ever), this is generally done to objects that you would not actually eat. The stagily gaping maws occupy a universe of never-realized fantasy (unless of course you're a cannibal). Similarly, a straight guy I know sometimes walks up behind his male friends and humps their bums.

Google also fails at putting pictures in the right fucking place. They call it "milk"--I'm not so sure about this can. The whole thing was thicker than cream. I keep telling myself that I use coconut milk for its fat content, but it really does add a somewhat jarring flavor. I've grown used to it, but honestly the only reason I keep doing it is because I'm afraid the pie will somehow not come out right if I use some other (non-dairy) liquid.

 I outsourced the crust-mixing and crust-shaping to my lackies, who were quite willing because they were to receive pie in exchange for their labor.

 That's cinnamon, fresh nutmeg, allspice, cloves, and black pepper. I used to mix the whole pie in the food processor; these days I add a step by food processing the squash flesh, and then transferring it to a bowl in which I whisk the filling together. This enables me to measure the squash puree. Me taking steps toward consistency by actually measuring ingredients? o_0

 They look beastly, don't they?

 The Shadow knows what lurks inside tea kettles.

 Would you just look at these… squash halves! Each half gave me two pies.

 It has already been eviscerated, but I thought I would try to show you what it looked like when it was whole.

 Never was the squash seen whole. You must imagine it.

 What a pain it was to cut in half.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Still here? Hmm. Elbert Green Hubbard (June 19, 1856 – May 7, 1915) was an American writer, publisher, artist, and philosopher. Raised in Hudson, Illinois, he met early success as a traveling salesman with the Larkin soap company. Today Hubbard is mostly known as the founder of the Roycroft artisan community in East Aurora, New York, an influential exponent of the Arts and Crafts Movement. Among his many publications were the nine-volume work Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great and the short story A Message to Garcia. He and his second wife, Alice Moore Hubbard, died aboard the RMS Lusitania, which was sunk by a German submarine off the coast of Ireland on May 7, 1915.

I really don't know how long to bake these for--I just keep checking them until they appear firm, and then poke them with a fork. The fork doesn't have to come out cleanly for it to be done (like cake), but it has to stick less, and have a consistency that isn't runny.

115 days. Cucurbita maxima. Plant produces good yields of 15" long dark bronze-green skinned squash. It has a very sweet orange-yellow thick flesh. Good for making pies. Keeps well into spring. Suitable for home garden and market growers. A heirloom winter squash variety dating back to 1790. This squash was likely used by your great-grandmother and is a fall tradition still today in New England. Finely-textured, yellow-orange flesh that is medium sweet and medium dry with a very hard rind. It is also suited for soups and all of your holiday baking needs.

I meant to take more than one photo of these, but by the time I had remembered to take one, we had mostly eaten them. They're terribly addicting, as I suppose anything is that's salty and crunchy. The seeds of the Green Hubbard are especially fat, although in part that is due to the thickness of their germ.

Look, I cleaned the stove. Don't worry, in another week it will be covered in crisp, half-burned, oil-soaked bits of unidentifiable food.

I believe this is called a "smile," but it looks more like I'm just baring my teeth. Yup, it's true. black is the only real color. It's amazing how I have just about as much to go on regarding these photos as you do. I would like to tell you how it happened that my photo was taken, but I don't really remember. I do know _who_ took my photo, but because I'm determined to be a useless narrator, I won't tell you.

Hubbard squash in my possession, I knew I had to make pie. This sweet Hubbard Pumpkin Pie contains minimalist ingredients, which allows you to experience the unique flavor and texture of this incredibly dense and silky squash variety. And the color from this squash is a brilliant golden amber with undertones of green and caramel. So pretty beforeand after you bake it.

The hubbard squash is said to have a mysterious origin, possibly named after a Mrs. Elizabeth Hubbard, who lived in the 1840s and gave seeds of the squash to friends, thus increasing its popularity. It is not known exactly where the hubbard was first grown, but most winter squash varieties are known to be New World foods, meaning they originated in the Americas. It can now be grown almost anywhere with enough sunlight, water, and warm weather; the seed is known to be quite resilient and grows best if planted during the spring to allowed to grow all summer.

More cinnamon.

My "Green Hubbard" is not the "True Green Hubbard" pictured here. It is not the original Hubbard squash that all other varieties of Hubbards were selected from. Nor is it imported from Australia in 1932, from seed secured from Arthur Yates and Co. of Sydney. If you are splashed by water make sure to splash back. If you fall deep into water you may fall through time as well.

Quisque eu fermentum urna. Suspendisse non elit vel massa porttitor tempus pretium at urna. In luctus gravida tincidunt. Vestibulum faucibus pharetra auctor. Nunc euismod pellentesque tellus, id varius mi aliquam vitae. Nunc faucibus tempor risus non porta. Etiam consequat sapien faucibus diam pharetra in iaculis diam semper. Sed sit amet enim sed lectus egestas elementum. Nullam in interdum nibh. Curabitur dignissim, odio vitae feugiat dignissim, eros dui aliquet eros, in condimentum neque urna nec erat. Duis mauris velit, porta in feugiat eu, convallis quis enim.

Galeux D'Eysines (a.k.a. Warted Sugar Marrow, Courge Brodee Galeuse, Giraumon Galeux d’Eysines) originated from the Bordeaux region of France. This heirloom was first listed by Vilmorin in 1883 under the name Warted Sugar Marrow. The salmon pink squash can weigh up to 15 pounds and are shaped like slightly flattened pumpkins. The most unique trait of this variety is the large beige warts that it develops as it ripens. The flesh can be used for soup or baked and the long vines are productive and early. Beautiful for fall decorations.

Many times the skin or rind will simply lift off with your fingers (see the photo at left) . I'll bet you didn't realize making your own pumpkin glop... err, "puree" was this easy!

Note: there are many varieties of pumpkin and some make better pies that other (due to sugar content, flavor, texture and water content. Drier, sweeter, fine-grained pies; the small (8" across) ones called "pie pumpkins" are best.

If your pumpkin puree has standing, free water, you may want to let it sit for 30 minutes and then pour off any free water. That will help prevent you pie from being too watery! Beyond, that, I have not found that the water makes a difference - I wouldn't be TOO concerned about it!

A Series of Attempts at a Post on Pie-Squashes

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Several Attempts to Write a Post Comparing Squashes for Pie

Beware, it has Chipotle powder.

It would be more ideal to write this comparison of pie-squashes after having tried the allegedly perfect variety, Blue Hubbard, but I can't get my hands on one. The squashes thrown indiscriminately into bins outside of the supermarkets in town never include Blue Hubbard. What I have tried will have to do, then, because let's be honest: By the time I find a Blue Hubbard, I won't want to write a comparison anyway. (At this point Blue Hubbard's inaccessibility has me elevating it to some kind of edible angel of pie-baking.)

Thus far this season I've tried Buttercup, Delicata, Pie Pumpkin and Golden Acorn.



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Pumpkin Pie Round 2: Pie Pumpkin vs Golden Acorn

Golden Acorn

• 3 cups cooked squash puree
• 2/3 cup coconut milk
• 3 eggs
• 1/2 cup white sugar
• 2/3 cup brown sugar

Pie Pumpkin

• 2 cups cooked pumpkin puree
• 1/2 cup coconut milk
• 2 eggs
• 1/3 cup white sugar
• 1/3 cup brown sugar
• 2 tablespoons water

The Devourer of Small,
Unsuspecting Creature's almond
flour gingersnap crust (with
molasses)

This week I tried making two other varieties of squash into pie, Pie Pumpkin and Golden Acorn. Why Golden Acorn? Because, sorting through the squash bins at Shop 'N' Kart, its label read "delicious baked, microwaved or in a pie," and none of the others (Green Kuri, Kabocha, Acorn, Carnival, Delicata, Butternut, Buttercup) had anything about pie.



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Let us return to the method I used to favor--asking inappropriately speculative questions of food (although the bananas turned me down) and walking far out onto the limb of looking too hard for profundity. What makes good pumpkin pie? To some it is something that doesn't look like a pumpkin at all, but by virtue of the versatility of the term may be called pumpkin, and comes in a can. To others the orange tone of the fruit's skin is proof of the pie. Still others care only for the pie's taste--whatever tastes best. But what is best? Are we searching for an ideal here, and every good taste is orbiting it? Or is taste as blind as it feels? I could tell you, for instance,



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TDSUC's pie

I found a Green Hubbard (apparently it's "Green" not "Blue" as I once thought), and have taken it home with me. Not that I was looking anymore, but there it was. They are rumored (by one website and by my brother who once made a pie from one he was given as a kind of payment) to be the ideal squash for pie. Therefore my own easily persuaded personal mythology promises that a mountain of delicious pies will be scooped from the flesh of this giant. It is heavy, and not as warty and irregularly formed as I was led to believe they are. I estimate that this one squash could make four small pies.

It seems pointless to omit the Hubbard from my comparison of pie-squashes, so I will have to delay until I bake it into pies.

Left: Pie Pumpkin, Right: Golden Acorn

Pie Pumpkin Pie

Golden Acorn Pie

rolled oats, butter, brown sugar, cinnamon

Golden Acorn filling

Pumpkin Pie

Delicata

A child and his mother come in. Leaning down to him, she points out Halloween decorations. "Look, a skeleton!"

"Aaaa!" he shrieks, utterly unfazed. He knows, however, that Halloween things such as skeletons are scary (his mother keeps telling him so), and that when something is scary, one screams. He runs around the room, yelling in excitement, hoping that his melodrama will carry off somehow and become real.

"Can I touch the spider?" he asks me. His mother tries to soften the blunt question by explaining to him "that man is trying to work." I let him touch the spider, as if I have any choice in the matter.

"Is it real?" he asks.

Buttercup

As anyone who has bludgeoned oneself with epistemological questions in an academic setting would, I stammer. Then again my hemming and hawing is even more uncalled for than that because he seems not to be asking this question earnestly. Finally I say "no," laughing nervously. Having already said this, I tell myself that his mother seems dead-set on not just confirming but encouraging the childish delusions she presumes he has, and clearly this needs to be compensated for.

Because for some reason I always think that children are one step ahead of me, I'm overly pleased with myself for coming up with something vaguely clever to say, to smoke him out of his dishonest interest in the spider's authenticity: "Would you touch a spider that big if it were real?" I ask him.

"No."

For the record, the spider above my head is pretty cool. It hangs from a wire spring that's attached to a fishing line running through a hook in the ceiling back to some device across the room that occasionally reels the line in and lets it back out, causing the spider to move up and down unexpectedly. They've really gone all-out filling this place with elaborate Halloween plastic.

In other words, yes, it's late October. Fall and Halloween decorations are everywhere about town, and winter squash litter supermarket storefronts in a simultaneously half-assed and exaggerated display of The Harvest. Triggered by a motion sensor, this coffee shop's bathroom advises me to "get out while you still can!" in a garbled voice emanating from a plastic skeleton with green LED eyes.

Delicata

It is also time to make pumpkin pie. Because that's what one does when the emaciated, struggling sun shines on yellow leaves. However, the large bins of winter squash in front of the Ashland Food Co-Op have run out of pie pumpkins. So I made squash pie. The trouble with winter squash is that, like apples, there are so many varieties and each one has vastly different properties. I can't keep track of them all. Every year I end up more or less blindly picking squash for pies and just to bake for eating with butter and brown sugar. I know that Acorn squash are good for the latter. Butternut squash (memorable for its beige color, it's pearish shape, and its enormity) I have a vague recollection of being horrible for pies, but used to good effect in ravioli and soup. I know have used Red Kuri and Green Kuri before, and that one of them has finely textured dry flesh and the other has more moist, slightly rougher texture, but I can't remember which is which. About the rest I know bugger all. So this time I decided to test two varieties I am unfamiliar with for their use in pie--Delicata and Buttercup (not to be confused with Butternut).

Buttercup

For the sake of science (err, if you can call it that) I tried to make the same pie with the two different squashes, so that the difference would be in the texture and flavor of the squashes, not in the moisture content, spices, or sweetness. This wasn't that easy, as Buttercup is drier and less sweet than Delicata, which I tried to compensate for by adding more sugar and coconut milk. I used coconut milk because I wanted my brother and my girlfriend to be able to eat them, neither of whom can eat dairy. For the same reason I made the crust from rolled oats, butter, and brown sugar (because neither of them can eat wheat, either). However (and maybe I've said this before), let us not poo-poo oat-butter-brown-sugar crust. Having grown up with it (because of my mother and brother's shared allergies), I even like it better than pastry crust sometimes.

Both squash I cut in half, scooped out the seeds and sticky bits, and baked open-face-down on a lightly oiled pan at 400 F. Delicata's flesh is yellow, Buttercup's orange. Here are the recipes I used:

Delicata:

• 2 1/2 cups cooked squash flesh
• 1/2 cup coconut milk
• 1/2 cup white sugar
• 2 eggs
• 1 tablespoon cinnamon
• pinch of black pepper
• 1/2 teaspoon cloves
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
• 1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Put all ingredients in a food processor and puree. Pour into a pie crust in a pie tin. (I used those little metal kind.)

Buttercup:

Ingredients and procedure are the same as above, but with the following differences:

• 2/3 cups coconut milk
• 2/3 cups white sugar

Crust:

• 3 cups quick rolled oats
• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 1/2 cup (one stick) softened butter

Mix together all ingredients with a fork, making sure to incorporate the butter as thoroughly as possible. Put about 1 cup of the mixture into a pie tin and push it out into the sides of the tin to form a relatively cohesive wall around the circumference. Use as much as is necessary to cover up any gaps in the bottom of the tin.

Left: Buttercup, Right: Delicata

Conclusion? The Delicata pie was way better. It was smooth, and not mealy like the Buttercup pie. Apparently I didn't compensate enough for the Buttercup's dryness and blandness, because the Buttercup pie was still drier and less sweet than the Delicata pie. But even if I had, the texture and flavor just doesn't work as well. With slices of the two pies on a plate together, I found myself avoiding the Buttercup pie.

On another note, some other kind of milk might be better for a non-dairy pie. The coconut milk lent a strong coconut flavor when the pie was cold (when just out of the oven, my girlfriend and I couldn't taste coconut at all), which I'm not sure is desirable. But I guess the nice thing in theory about coconut milk is that it adds its richness to the pie, whereas, say, almond milk, would not.

But while Delicata wins, I now read on the Internet that Hubbard squash is "perfect for pies." So now I have to try it, obviously.

Left: Delicata, Right: Buttercup

This may induce eye-rolling, but did you know Libby's--that canned pumpkin brand that has set itself up as synonymous with pumpkin pie--is made from a variety of Cucurbita moschata squash (the same species as Butternut), not Cucurbita pepo (which includes pumpkins, zucchini, and Delicata squash)? My pies are not made from pumpkin or from Libby's, are set atop oats, and thinned with coconut milk. Are my pies real? What a silly question.