Today I decided I would bake. We have all these apples. My friend gave me a dozen and Ryk picked a dozen last week and they were just sitting there in the fruit bowl, and kind of glowing in the slant light of autumn. It was time they became something. Cooking, after all, is what distinguishes us from animals.
So I made a cobbler. I'd never made cobbler before. My associations with cobblers involve, mostly, grandmas - other people's grandmothers; I've never been close to a grandmother of my own. Baking one involved finding a glass pie dish and buttering it; it involved peeling, coring, and cutting the apples and tossing them with sugar, flour, butter, cinnamon, and vanilla before baking. On a whim, I added persimmons.
As with the apples, there were just too many persimmons in the fruit bowl. I didn't think I liked persimmons - they make my mouth feel sticky - but this morning I added them to my smoothie and they gave it this great orange flush, deceptively unlike citrus in flavor, without any chalky texture. They work perfectly with cinnamon.
And they worked in my pie. After I covered the filling with batter and left it in the oven for three-quarters of an hour, it was soft and steaming, crisp and brown, and, somehow, at the same time, gooey. It might have been the butter - but it might have been the juice of those persimmons from Eric's tree.