Gleaning Cocktail Ingredients

Portland can be a funny place, and I'm not saying that with a "Keep Portland Weird" smirk. Stroll through any neighborhood in town from late summer to early fall and you'll see fallen prunes, plums and apples smearing sidewalks. This time of year persimmons glow like orange lanterns from trees planted decades ago.

Persimmons in vodka.

Some of those fruit trees were left when the east side of the river, much of it consisting of farms and orchard land, was developed for housing in the early part of the 1900s. Other fruit trees, like cherries, prunes, quince and plums, were planted as street trees back when families had large gardens and preserved the fruit and vegetables they grew to use in the lean days of winter.

With the emergence of large supermarkets that stock fresh greens and fruit year round—not to mention women needing to get full-time jobs to support their families—big gardens gave way to landscaping, and the pantries stocked with row upon row of fruit, vegetables, tomatoes and preserves were torn out. Sadly, this meant that the skills to do all that preserving were also lost in many families like mine, though they're now being rediscovered through books, classes and online videos.

Quince in vodka.

Another way of preserving fruit, aside from submerging it in sugar syrup and "putting up" jars in the pantry, was to make liqueurs and infusions. I've now done that with quince, green walnuts, black currants and persimmons, and it's always fun to pull out a few of these colorful containers to share with friends as an after-dinner digestif. They also make great gifts decanted into small bottles available in most kitchen supply stores.

But aside from sippers and hostess gifts, they're also great mixers in cocktails. The persimmon-infused vodka I made from foraged fruit last year pairs particularly well with brown liquors like bourbon and rye. This is a cocktail that Dave created the other night, and I hope that one winter's day you'll consider making your own infused liqueur when you see those glowing orange orbs dangling from a tree.

Good Fuyu #2

2 oz. rye
1 oz. persimmon-infused vodka
1/2 oz. sweet vermouth
2 dashes Angostura bitters

Fill cocktail mixing glass half full of ice. Add ingredients and stir 30 seconds until well-chilled. Strain into cocktail glass or coupe. Garnish with amarena cherry.

Plenty of Persimmons? Make Cocktails!

Lately my life has been imitating the old saw about making lemonade when life gives you lemons. What's been interesting is that the lemonade I've been making has had a particularly alcoholic bent to it.

It started with a gift of green walnuts last summer, which are in the process of becoming an Italian liqueur called nocino. Then this fall my neighbors called to inquire whether we might want to come pick a few of the quince that were threatening to break several branches on their overburdened trees, which prompted me to chop up a few and throw them in a jar with vodka.

Drenched but pleased.

A few weeks later, my friend Kathryn called to see if I'd be interested in helping her harvest persimmons from her neighbor's tree across the street, which were just going to end up falling and making a stinky, slippery, insect-attracting mess on the road. These persimmons were the variety called fuyu, the squat, non-astringent variety with a slightly sweet, mild flavor that can be eaten out of hand, sliced into salads or served alongside, oh, say, a seared duck breast.

I arrived at Kathryn's just in time for a drenching downpour, despite which we managed to haul the ladder out and pick a bushel of the still-rock hard fruits. I suggested that might be enough for our needs, but, coming from generations of hardy Kentucky women, rain or no rain Kathryn insisted on filling up both fairly large baskets.

Sliced persimmons in vodka.

A little over two weeks later, the persimmons had just started to ripen to the point where they could be used. This gave me some time to do a few searches online, and I narrowed the options down to three: I'd make and freeze a purée for use in summer margaritas and a batch of sorbet; then thinly slice enough to fill a gallon jug which I'd top with vodka and decant in a month or so to make a liqueur for next fall.

The third intriguing option was to pack layers of the whole fruit into a gallon jar, covering each layer with cane sugar. The idea was for the moisture contained in the fruit to gradually melt the sugar, making a syrup as well as preserving the fruit itself. So with the purée in the freezer and the two gallon jars sitting on a shelf in the basement, all that was left was to wait until something (hopefully delicious) happened.

Persimmons packed in sugar.

Four weeks later, the magic had worked. I decanted the now-pale orange vodka from the sliced persimmons and put it in a jar that went back down in the basement. Then I poured off the syrup from the preserved fruit, sealing it into tubs that went into the freezer. Well, almost all of it went into the freezer. I kept a little out to make homemade fruit syrup soda for my nephew, similar to the rhubarb soda he'd so loved last spring. And of course Dave immediately put his name in to use a few ounces for cocktail experiments (see below), a request I'm always happy to oblige.

Being the magnanimous sort I am, and thinking maybe there was a chance another cocktail recipe might be forthcoming, I shared a bit of the syrup with my neighbor Bill. Within a few hours he'd texted back a recipe for a lovely rye-and-lemon concoction he called the Good Fuyu. We tried it alongside Dave's version of an Old Fashioned he dubbed Old Persimmon's Old Fashioned after the nickname that T.S. Eliot gave Ezra Pound.*

Not to brag, but now I have two excellent new cocktails to add to our growing list (and now so do you)!

Old Persimmon's Old Fashioned

2 oz. bourbon

3 tsp. persimmon syrup

Dash Angostura bitters

Dash orange bitters

Orange peel

Fill a cocktail mixing glass half-full of ice. Add all ingredients except orange peel to mixing glass and stir for 30 seconds. Strain into short rocks glass. Holding the orange peel skin-side down over the drink, twist and then drop into the liquid.

* * *

Good Fuyu

1.5 oz. rye

.75 oz. persimmon syrup

.5 oz. lemon juice

Dash Peychaud's bitters

Amarena cherry

Fill a cocktail mixing glass half-full of ice. Add all ingredients except cherry to mixing glass and stir for 30 seconds. Strain into short rocks glass. Add cherry.

* Apparently the two writers frequently corresponded by—gasp—handwritten letters and, inspired by  the Uncle Remus folk tales, Eliot referred to Pound as "Old Possum" while Pound dubbed Eliot "Brer Rabbit."

Guilty as Charged

Now, I'm not admitting to anything like the recent shenanigans of Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich. (Can you call a federal indictment on bribery and conspiracy charges "shenanigans"?) But I do have favorites.

And I'd never pimp a restaurant that serves food I wouldn't recommend. Even if they give it to me for free. Or with $1,000 bills under the dessert plate. Or if I found diamonds in the crème caramel. Really.

I know I talked about it when it opened. And again, even. But when Dave called and said he was heading over to Powell's Books on Hawthorne and that it was very close to "you know what," he didn't have to elaborate. I grabbed the keys and headed out the door.

I won't lie to you. Don't go to Evoe if you're in a hurry. This place is not for the "I've got half an hour for lunch" crowd. And, because word is getting out about the quality of the small plates chef Kevin Gibson serves up, don't go at noon. Just pretend you're on vacation and you have all the time in the world, head in around 1:30 or 2 and spend a couple of hours sitting at the broad butcher block table sampling the amazing array of fantastically simple dishes that Gibson conjures from nothing more than his mandoline and a hot plate. I'm not kidding.

For our lunch we ordered his requisite deviled eggs stuffed, breaded and fried top-down that come out tasting like something you'd walk miles in the rain for. (I know because Mr. B did just that.) Followed by the "duck with persimmons" (left, above), a less-than-sufficiently-adjectived dish comprised of an unctuous seared duck breast sprinkled with sea salt served alongside lightly-dressed, hand-picked mizuna greens and little wedges of perfectly ripe Fuyu persimmon wedges.

Then there was the crispy lamb with corona beans (right, above), the meat seared on the hot plate till a thin crust formed on the fatty side. Placed on top of a plate of simply cooked beans with sage and juniper, this was a winter dish to write home about.

Choose from their stellar selection of by-the-glass wines or a beer from the rotating list, and there's no better place to while away a couple of hours on a winter afternoon.

Details: Evoe, 3731 S.E. Hawthorne Blvd. Phone 503-232-1010.

Farm Bulletin: Chestnuts, Persimmons and Turnips, Oh My!

Pursuant to the notice below about the holiday farmers' markets this weekend, and despite my smarty-pants teasing about the habits of those on the west side of the river, correspondent Anthony Boutard muses on some history and preparations for these winter comestibles.

Chestnuts: Bouche de Betizac

When the chestnut blight struck Europe, the French fought back with several hybrids between the European (Castanea sativa) and Japanese (C. crenata) species of chestnut. These hybrids had good resistance to the strain of blight that attacked the European trees, and the nuts were larger than the pure C. sativa trees. Betizac is one of the earliest of those hybrids, and probably the best, especially in terms of flavor. The original Betizac scionwood, and other varieties of the chestnut, was brought to OSU in the 1980s by Bob Rackham, an OSU extension agent who took an interest in chestnuts. Scionwood is a branch from this year's growth which can be grafted onto suitable rootstock.

With the help of Christopher Foster [of Cascadia Chestnuts], we managed to collect some scionwood from those trees before the planting was pulled out. Although he might demur at the suggestion, Christopher is one the nation's leading authorities on the chestnut, and he has been very generous with his time and ideas.

Chestnuts must be scored before cooking. We have all manner of tools for the job. The cheapest, easiest and safest, in our experience, is a hooked linoleum blade that fits in a box knife. Unless you are predisposed to making crosses for some religious reason, a single slice will do. We recommend roasting the chestnuts in a good size batch, and then freezing them. An open fire confers a nice smokiness to the fruits. Immediately after roasting, wrap the unpeeled nuts in a few dish towels and let the fruits stew a bit. This makes it easier to remove the inner peel. Peel them while they are hot, or the job will be difficult.

We have cured the fruits so they are ready to use this week. They do not store well. Chestnuts are essentially a sweet acorn, and very different from other fruits we call "nuts" in that they are high in carbohydrates and low in fats. Leave them on the counter for a couple of weeks, they will be hard as rocks and about as appealing. Chestnuts are in the oak family, subfamily Diosbalanos, meaning noble acorn. The genus name Castanea is derived from Kastanea, an ancient city in Asia Minor where they were thought to have originated. In Ancient Greece, the response to a beggar was, "Go shake acorns from a tree."

Turnips: Turnip Diary II

Unlike last year, the turnips sold fairly well at the last market. We returned with a mere 10 pounds. This week, we will have mostly Jersey Navet and Early White. We also pulled a few Wilhelmsburger and Gilfeather Rutabagas and some Norfolk Green Turnips.

The simplest way to enjoy fresh turnips is to grate or julienne the root, and dress them as a salad. The skin is tender enough that peeling is unnecessary. Trim the top and bottom, and check for wireworm damage. We try to catch the worst problems, but sometimes the worm moves on, and the root heals over the wound.

Dress the grated root with mirin and sesame oil. A premium Japanese sesame oil has a more delicate flavor than the heavily roasted types used for cooking. Virgin sesame oil has the most delicate flavor. There are many brands of mirin available and some are sweeter than others. The Mitoku brand has both sesame oil and organic mirin which are well suited for salads.

Turnips and rutabagas are also delicious when sautéed gently in a some butter, salt pork or pancetta. For those poorly disposed toward animal fats, olive or coconut oil work fine. We generally dice them into 1/2 inch cubes. The roots are sweet enough that they will caramelize slightly. Great with squash.

Persimmons

These are the small persimmons native to eastern United States, Diospyros virginiana. They are distinctly astringent with a clove-like spiciness. The genus name, Diospyros, means "noble pear." The trees are in the ebony family, and the heartwood wood is very dense and strong. It was most commonly used in golf clubs, shoe lasts, pool cues and loom shuttles.

When Carol's late mother, Carol Black, hosted a party, she would have a local school teacher, Thelma Johnson, assist her in the food preparations. Persimmon pudding is a classic Eastern Shore of Maryland dessert. It works with with Japanese persimmons, though the native persimmons provide more depth.

Thelma Johnson's Persimmon Pudding
2 c. pulp (persimmons must be mushy)
2 c. sugar
1 1/2 c. buttermilk
1 tsp. baking soda
3 eggs, beaten
1/2 c. evaporated milk or half and half cream
1 1/2 c. flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/8 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 lb. butter (1 stick)
Whipped cream for top.

Pre-heat oven to 325 degrees F. Mix pulp and sugar. Add soda to buttermilk till it quits foaming. Add mix to pulp with eggs and cream. Sift flour, baking powder, salt and cinnamon and stir into pulp mix. Add vanilla. Melt butter in 14" by 10" baking dish. Swish around sides and bottom and add excess to batter. Pour into baking dish and bake for 45 minutes. Cool in dish and serve as squares topped with whipped cream. Approx. 12 servings.

Read the other posts in the Turnip Diaries series: Part I: The Wapato Valley, Part II: Chestnuts, Persimmons and Turnips, Part III: Misery Loves Company, Part IV: We're In This Pickle Together, Part V: The Spicy Turnip, Part VI: The Turnip Also Rises, Part VII: WWPD (What Would Pliny Do). 

Persimmon Diaries

Sometimes a friend will point out something they think is obvious and it comes as a complete revelation, bordering on an epiphany, to me. I was over at my friend Kim's the other day, sitting on the floor playing with her puppies and she said, "Want some persimmon?"

Now, I really love the way persimmons look. That bright orange globular body with the cool-looking leaves curling out the top are an art director's dream. But try as I might, I hadn't really found a recipe that made me sit up and say, "Wow, this is an amazing fruit!" And I'd tried a few, including a persimmon bread, persimmon chutney, persimmon sauce. It all lacked a certain oomph that I look for.

So when Kim handed me a slice of a Fuyu persimmon she'd bought at Trader Joe's, I wasn't sure what to expect. I bit into it, and it had a softly sweet taste and firm, smooth texture. I had another one, skin and all, and it was a delight. "So this is what persimmons are all about," I thought.

I was still pondering that when I got home and found that Culinate.com had called, wanting me to write a quick column about, you guessed it, persimmons! You can read it here, and get Luan Schooler's terrific recipe for Bresaola with Persimmons.