The persimmon tree caught my eye as I turned onto Highway 9 near my Ben Lomond home. Only moments earlier, I had been pondering on what dessert I should prepare for our gourmet club’s monthly dinner.
The tree seems to magically appear each November, having shed its leaves, giving the fall sun a chance to ripen its golden orbs of fruit, turning them from a bright yellow to a deep orange, perfect for a holiday pudding.
Twice I drove down the lane leading to the persimmon tree, and twice the house under its branches was dark.
Fruit from the tree hung heavy from its branches. It was so enticing, but not mine to pick. I returned home empty-handed.
The following November, I once again succumbed to longing for those beautiful persimmons which were ripening, and once again I drove down the lane where the house now had a light shining.
Before I could knock, a voice called for me to “come,” but a small Chihuahua dog with a “junkyard dog” bark held me at bay. A few minutes later, the dog under control, I entered.
Mary Houhbauch, the dog on her lap, was sitting on her couch, her walker close by. We exchanged names, a few pleasantries and my reason for being there. Persimmons for my holiday pudding, I said.
Mary told me that her husband, Max, had planted the tree.
“Jellies, breads and puddings have been made from that tree’s fruit,” Mary said. “But the years have passed, my husband is gone, and I” — gesturing toward her walker — “well, now the fruit ripens and drops for the wildlife to eat.
“My friends Irene and Al across the way would take the fruit, but they are now gone as well,” Mary added.
“The Legates,” I almost shouted.
“You knew them?” Mary asked.
“Knew them? I bought their home and work in their garden every day,” I exclaimed.
The moment passed, the sun dropping behind the mountains as Mary, with sadness in her voice, talked of her friends, the Legates. The two couples had taken part in each others’ weddings and had continued their friendship until death separated them, one by one.
Promising to return for another visit, I left Mary with her dog, now asleep on her lap.
Stepping outside into the twilight, I picked enough fruit for my holiday pudding.
The following year, I reminded myself to visit Mary. The months passed, and my hubby and I traveled during that holiday season. There was no need for persimmons.
When we returned in January, I saw a few persimmons still clinging to the tree and a “for sale” sign at the beginning of Mary’s lane. Mary had been moved to a rest home, where she passed away soon after. She was 92.
Mary left my life as quietly as she had entered. The persimmon tree is now filled with ripening fruit, reminding me of my brief but poignant visit with Mary.
I hope Mary wouldn’t mind that I have named my holiday pudding for her. After all, hadn’t those golden orbs once belonged to Mary?
Colly Gruczelak, a Ben Lomond resident, loves people and loves to cook. She is a founder of the Santa Cruz Mountains Gourmet Dinner Club. Contact her at
cz****@sb*******.net
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Mary’s Holiday Persimmon Pudding
1¾ cup ripe persimmons
½ cup soft unsalted butter
6 tablespoons packed light brown sugar
6 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 large beaten egg
1 cup sifted all-purpose flour
1¾ teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon cinnamon
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
Puree persimmons and set aside. In mixer bowl, beat butter and sugars. Add egg. In a
separate bowl, sift dry ingredients. Add butter mixture with milk, puree and add vanilla.
Add dry ingredients. Mix well.
Butter a 1-quart mold and lid. Pour in batter, cover tightly. Place a rack in a pot taller than mold.
Add mold and fill pot with boiling water halfway up side of mold. Cover pot. Maintain water level and simmer for 1 ½ hours. Remove mold, uncover and cool in mold. Turn out when warm.
Rum Sauce
1/3 cup butter
2/3 cup brown sugar, packed
Melt butter and sugar in pan. Add 3 tablespoons flour, stirring constantly
Carefully add 1½ to 2 cups hot water and the juice of 1 lemon. Simmer 4 to 5 minutes. Add ¼ cup rum before serving.
