This past weekend, my dad's side of the family spent a Saturday afternoon at my grandpa's house. We barbecued burgers and sat in the shade around Grandpa's backyard picnic table like always, eating and talking together. Right now, persimmons are in season, so the trees in his backyard were dotted with warm orange hues.
A bit of family history: Grandpa's backyard is the last remaining bit of land leftover from Kawaguchi Farms. My dad and his two siblings were raised on this farm where they primarily grew asparagus. The farm is gone now, but Grandpa grows a variety of fruits and vegetables in his backyard including oranges, apples, lemons, avocados, kale, tomatoes, and strawberries. When I was little, my brothers and I would play in this backyard "jungle" amidst dappled sunlight and the cloyingly sweet smell of fallen fruit.
For the 24 years I've explored his backyard, napped on his couch, and simply known my grandpa, he's always seemed so quiet to me. But that's dramatically changed in the past couple of years.
Grandpa just turned 92, but I feel like he's become younger since he passed the 90's threshold. He cracks hilarious jokes, his mind is still incredibly sharp, and his will to live is stronger than ever. When I called to wish him a happy 92nd birthday, he acted like I had gotten the year wrong, "I thought it was 29?!" and then proceeded to laugh so hard at his own joke that I almost cried laughing with him. One of the best things he's sassed me with was when I was happily telling him how when I get past 90, all I'm going to do is nap (I have a reputation as an excellent sleeper). He quickly shot back in his gravelly Grandpa voice with, "I thought you did that already?" Be still, my heart, this abuse is phenomenal. My Lola, my grandmother on my mom's side, is the same way. At nearly 91, she has decided she can do anything she wants, like eat Baskin-Robbins Nutty Coconut ice cream two times a day and justify it with a defiant "but I like it." Under doctor's orders, she can't do that anymore, but she's quick to cause other sorts of trouble. She initiated a fist bump with my grandpa at this last family potluck because Grandpa got caught in a lie, "Yes, Mits! You don't have to tell the truth!" I was ecstatic and alarmed at her lack of moral discipline all at once.
I wasn't trying to make this connection when I started writing all this, but I guess like dried persimmons, wrinkles can bring out the sweeter side of things. Anyway, on to the persimmons!
Grandpa already had a few buckets of persimmons picked and ready to be prepped for dehydration. He's not able-bodied enough to pick the fruits himself, but his caretaker, Mary Ann, was under his instruction for picking and drying them.
A first batch of persimmons had just come out from the dehydrator. They almost shrink half their size after taking the heat! Some people prefer to slice their persimmons before dehydrating them, but Grandpa says dried sliced persimmons don't taste as good as whole ones, so we don't do that. He makes the rules after all.
Once the persimmons are dried, they get flattened down by hand. Mary Ann showed me how to press each persimmon between her fingers.
They'll go in for another round in the dehydrator before they're completely done and ready to eat!
Even though he was worried it wouldn't be tasty, Grandpa let me try one of the first round of dehydrated persimmons off the drying rack-- it wasn't ready, but it was still super delicious! It was still warm from the dehydrator and perfectly sweet.
It was a very good Saturday. And a great reminder to live simply and sweetly.