Ripe persimmons evoke memories of Shanghai
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
 Before moving to Shanghai back in 2000, my then-significant other and I adopted two wire-haired dachshunds named Oscar and Meyer from a breeder in Santa Cruz. Reading about the recent one-dog policy mandated in Beijing, China, (instituted because of the rise in rabies occurring in unregistered dogs) reminded me of the joys and pitfalls of having dogs when I lived there.
The streets of Shanghai, littered with chicken bones and other debris, were a far cry from the clean streets we left back home in Potrero Hill. The grass-lined parks in Shanghai didn't offer any solace, as dogs weren't allowed on the grounds. This rule was strictly enforced by security guards, but we dodged the guards the best we could, jumping the fences and hiding behind trees and shrubs. We were nabbed a couple of times and escorted out, my little dogs trotting along wagging their tails, happy for the exercise and excitement.
It was the simple pleasure of companionship that I most enjoyed. Taking dog walks several times a day made me feel I was a part of the neighborhood. In the mornings, my favorite time to stroll, I'd see the same people sweeping the sidewalk. A group of Shanghai housewives and housekeepers communed on the small patches of grass with their dogs, usually situated by a busy thoroughfare. We all had our dog registrations in hand. It was common to be approached by a policeman, as most dog owners at the time couldn't afford to register and inoculate their dogs.
In the morning, the busy narrow sidewalks were dotted with food vendors peddling breakfast sticks of fried dough, steamed dumplings and cups of sweetened soy milk. Down a quiet lane in the wet gray coldness of late fall, the fruit vendors displayed a mood-lifting selection of shiny garnet pomegranates, golden Asian pears and orange-hued persimmons.
I knew nothing about persimmons. I'd learn later that the acorn-shaped ones are called Hachiya and the squat, round ones named Fuyu. Every morning I passed the fruit vendor and eyed the tomato-shaped Fuyu persimmons, the more commonly sold variety. Finally I bought a couple and asked the vendor how to eat them. Just bite into one, he said taking a big bite out of one he picked from a pile. Taking his cue, I did the same. The flesh was firm and very sweet.
Since that first raw taste, I now puree the persimmons and bake them into a classic spice cake, doctored with fragrant five-spice powder and topped with a generous mound of ginger cream. I bite into the moist, perfectly sweet persimmon cake and feel the mental tug back to the lanes of Shanghai where I followed behind the pull of my dogs' leashes.
|
