11/08/2025
The kitchen counter looked like a sunrise today.
Rows and rows of persimmons; bright golds, deep oranges, sun-kissed reds all lined up like little lanterns, each one grown on that old, generous tree at the top of the slope. Twenty, maybe twenty-five years it’s been standing there, holding out fruit for anyone lucky enough to walk beneath it. A grandfather tree, weathered and heavy with stories, and this year it decided to give us its whole heart.
Ours is a Hachiya persimmon, the classic astringent variety that:
• grows huge, lantern-shaped fruit
• ripens soft like jelly
• turns into the world’s best purée
• is perfect for baking, freezing, baby food, and medicinal digestion support
I’ve learned a lot about persimmons these past few weeks. They surprise you. They come off the tree firm, almost like an apple, but their skin is softer, more delicate. If you drop one, it’ll bruise like a peach. The raccoon has learned that too, my silent little rival, snatching them in the night, leaving teeth marks and half-munched gifts on the mulch. Between the raccoon, the wild deer, and the birds, my family and I started picking the moment we see that first flash of orange. It feels like a race and a ritual at the same time.
I snip one off and hand it down to Haven to place in our bag. He looks at it with curiosity and joy in his eyes. “Persimmon,” he repeats my label. It just fills my heart to know that he is learning where food comes from and how nature takes care of us if we take care of it.
Every time I clip a branch weighed down with fruit, the whole limb lifts, almost relieved. Almost whispering “thank you.” This tree has carried a heavy season.
For weeks now, my family and I have been gathering them in boxes; tops upward, single layer, an apple tucked amongst them to nudge the ripening along. And today it finally happened… the big sorting day. Two full counters laid out.
In our ready-to-freeze pile:
89 ripe, jelly-soft persimmons; the ones that surrender under your thumb. It almost feels like an almost too ripe tomato. You know the big, super heirloom red ones where you can feel the juice underneath the skin.
And in our “almost ready” pile:
74 slightly firmer persimmons; the next wave, glowing and close.
Beyond that we have about five more small boxes of persimmons that were just picked recently and more on the tree to pick. That’s a blessing in numbers. That’s a year’s worth of medicine.
This afternoon my mom and I will slice the tops, halve the soft ones, and freeze them flat. The next wave will join them soon, and then we’ll do one big beautiful processing day of juice, purée, maybe even persimmon butter if the orchard spirits allow it.
And truthfully… persimmons aren’t just fruit for us. They’re medicine for Haven.
Persimmons carry a world of gentle healing inside them:
• They soothe the digestive system, calming inflammation.
• They’re rich in soluble fiber, perfect for sensitive guts.
• They support healthy stool formation without being harsh.
• They’re high in antioxidants that support cellular repair.
• They give steady, easy carbohydrates, not spikes, ideal for a little body that’s been through too much.
• And maybe most importantly…
They taste like love to him.
Persimmon purée is one of Haven’s safe foods. And every time I stir it, every time I freeze a batch, every time I gather fruit under that tree… it feels like I’m protecting him in the quiet, ancient way only a mother can.
There have been so many times where I felt helpless like there was nothing I could do to make Haven better. Endless sleepless nights of feeling like I somehow had to have the strength to keep going, even though I didn’t know what keeping going meant or if we would have a tomorrow to keep going to.
And like that old grandfather persimmon tree, I held the weight of the fruit for so many seasons. Six years until I could watch my son walk around in a yard that we can call ours. And I can hand him something from my own hand that can actually help him.
Feeding him something that comes from our own land, from a tree older than him, something rooted long before we ever got here. Bearing the weight with us and allowing us to lift it one piece of fruit at a time.
This is the first fall at Haven’s Homestead.
And today… the kitchen table looks like proof that we belong here.
