Category Archives: Fruit

Fruity Looking Fruit

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What the heck?

How gnarly looking is this?

Yes, if it popped up on my computer screen without warning, I might just let out a yelp.

Actually, it arrived by special delivery to my house the other day, hand-carried over by my friend Damian, a gardener extraordinaire who can grow anything, and I mean ANYTHING.

Yes, he grew this Buddha’s hand that’s otherwise known as citron. Once I got my nerves back in check from the sight of this crazy sea anemone-looking fruit, I nearly got high off its fragrance. It’s intoxicating to say the least. It has notes of Meyer lemon, grapefruit and even a little vanilla. Someone ought to bottle this as Eau de Buddha and sell it for a mint.

In fact, some people, including Damian and his family, just use the Buddha’s hand as a table centerpiece to scent a room beautifully and to be quite the conversation piece for unsuspecting guests.

An octopus-like fruit.

All rind, and little juice, this citrus is prized for its aroma. Its rind is treasured for the exquisite candied peel it makes, too.

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Lovely Lemons

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My baby.

See that beauty of a Meyer lemon up there?

Yup, I grew that.

That might not seem so remarkable until you realize that I’m the woman otherwise known as “Black Thumb Jung.” Yes, that’s what my dear husband calls me. With the utmost affection, of course.

Admittedly, I’m not the world’s greatest gardener. I have killed ivy and cactus, after all, which are supposedly indestructible. Just not in my hands, though.

I wasn’t born a gifted gardener like my late-Mom was. She could grow anything — even tubs of sweet, juicy tomatoes inside our family house, which too often was enveloped in dreary San Francisco fog to give those delicate seedlings a fighting chance outside.

But that’s not to say that I don’t give it the ol’ school-girl try. Every year, I fill my backyard planters with new soil, new plants, and a bushel of hope. Yes, the utmost optimism that something, anything will actually go on to live and flourish. Usually, at least a few things do. Oh sure, I’ve lost my share of cilantro, tarragon, roses, snapdragons, and butter lettuce that blossomed brightly, then in an instant just died out. Gosh, was it something I said?

Fortunately, a few things actually do go on to thrive. I can grow basil like there’s no tomorrow. Rosemary and I get along just like that. And I once had a tomato plant that not only produced for a full summer, but somehow managed to endure a rainy, cold, neglected winter only to sprout beautiful round orbs once again the following year. Go figure.

So, last year, I planted a dwarf Meyer lemon tree, and waited with bated breath. Sure, many of my friends already have such trees and are only to eager to load me up with their abundance of lemons. But there’s just something wonderfully satisfying about growing your own.

I watched as the blossoms turned into little, hard green spheres that grew and grew, and slowly started turning taxi-cab yellow. I picked the first few last month, all the while beaming with pride.

Dig in.

So, what to do with these special lemons that I grew with my very own black thumb?

Why, make lemon bars, of course.

San Francisco Pastry Chef Emily Luchetti’s, to be exact.

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A Festive, Non-Alcoholic Way To Ring in the New Year

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Here's to the new year with a taste of something sweet and tart.

Is it really just a day away from 2010? Seriously?

I’m not necessarily ready for a new year to begin, not when it seems like this past one just zoomed by at warp speed before I could barely catch my breath.

If I could, I’d like to rewind it back to, say, maybe summer to do all the things I had hoped to do but never got around to doing. Things like read more books, cook even more fabulous new dishes, host a few more dinner parties at home, clean out my closet, organize my desk better, go for a hike, and write more letters on actual stationary to be mailed with a real stamp.

Since I can’t turn back time, I’ll do the next best thing — usher in 2010 with welcome arms, eager anticipation and boundless hopefulness.

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The Art of Hoshigaki

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Hoshigaki -- a persimmon dried in the traditional Japanese method.

As chef of Pizzeria Picco in Larkspur, Restaurant Picco in Larkspur and Bix in San Francisco, Chef Bruce Hill has a flair for creating stylish Italian and New American food.

He also has a thing for massaging fruit.

Before you raise your eyebrows too high at that, just know that it involves the ancient and quite labor-intensive Japanese tradition of preserving persimmons.

Chef Bruce Hill. (Photo courtesy of the chef)

Hill has been making the dried persimmons, known as hoshigaki, for the past four years, ever since he was inspired to give it a try by the lovely sight of all the bright orange persimmons at his local farmers market.

He doesn’t use the hoshigaki at his restaurants or sell them. He just makes them for fun to give to family and friends. And when he asked me if I would like to try some, I jumped at the chance.

Hill employs the traditional method of making them, which requires that the persimmons be peeled by hand, then hung by string for several weeks. During that time, he gives them regular massages to help break up the flesh and to help maintain their uniform shape. The rub-downs also help smooth the exterior to retard mold. After about six weeks of this pampering, a white powdery bloom naturally appears on the fruit, signaling that they’re ready to be enjoyed.

A younger version of the dried persimmon that still has its orange color.

He sent me two kinds of hoshigaki, each made of the Hachiya variety of persimmon, so that I could get an idea of the transformation process.

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