Hoshigaki (uga-licious)

Final product. Hoshigaki after three months of drying.

I’ve finally come to appreciate hoshigaki (Japanese dried persimmons, 乾し柿) after ignoring them for most of my life. I’ve known about them for as long as I can remember — my grandparents relished them; I saw them in Shirokiya and all over Japan, but I never knew what the big deal was about these ugly, shriveled, dried fruit.

I don’t like fresh persimmons either, except for how beautifully bright orange they are. When in season, and fortunate enough to see a persimmon grove, I am always amazed at how the bright orange fruit hang on trees that have shed all of their leaves for winter.

Most people enjoy the Fuyu variety, which are flatter, firm and crisp when ripe. The Hachiya variety is what’s used to make hoshigaki. These can’t be eaten when firm — they need to soften, indicating that their interiors have lost their astringency and have transformed into a sweet, custard-like consistency.

And that’s all good if you like that kind of thing. Me, not so much. So after visiting the Ferry Building Farmer’s Market one crisp November morning and seeing the abundance of both varieties of persimmons, I had the “brilliant” idea to try making hoshigaki.

Day 1: Hanging in the kitchen.

Of course, I buy the persimmons before I actually know what to do with them. After frantically scouring the internet, I found that the process is not very difficult, albeit long and requiring a fair amount of nurturing.

Luckily, the hachiyas I purchased still had their stems on (those vendors just know). After giving them a good washing,and peeling, I tied their stems with twine and dunked them in vodka to “sanitize” them.

I’m always amazed at how much care and pride the Japanese have in everything that they do. Hoshigaki require a lot of attention… definitely a lot more than I’m used to providing.

In Japan, most people hang and dry them outside in the crisp dry winter air. Because of “out of site, out of mind,” I chose to hang them in my kitchen. They need to be massaged often (or at least when you remember to, in I my case), to drive off moisture and develop into a fudge-like consistency.

After two weeks.

Most instructions indicated that when the persimmons develops a white power on the surface (dried fructose, not mold), the hoshigaki is ready. I probably took it to the extreme and let them dry for about two months.

While not the most attractive thing to eat, they are my newfound “healthy” indulgence (if, and when I’m able to get them).

As a result, we purchased some persimmon trees to grow in the backyard. Hopefully in a few years, we’ll be fortunate to have a big bounty to enjoy and make more hoshigaki.

Sweet. Fudgy. Delicious.