by Tumbleweed_Tex » Tue Dec 21, 2010 9:44 am
Adolescent Persimmons
Tucked in tightly between the little shed where Granny Tex kept her canning jars, and the low barn where the cows hung out, was the biggest fig tree I’ve ever seen in my life. The neighboring pear tree was literally overshadowed, and the little persimmon tree wasn’t even worth mentioning. At the ground, that old tree must have measured two feet across, and to a seven-year old mini-cowboy, the top leaves were so high they were often obscured by the clouds.
Every year in early summer, thousands of figs were painstakingly harvested and placed, one batch at a time, in a big stainless steel dishpan. An overnight covering of white sugar began the process, and the next day, a slow rendering took place over low heat, transforming the kitchen into an aromatherapy salon. After several hours, the incredibly dark, thick, lumpy mixture was lovingly sealed into pint fruit jars, and another crop of Granny T.’s World Famous Fig Preserves went into the history books.
There was always, always an opened jar of fig preserves sitting in the middle of Granny T.’s kitchen table, along with a plate of leftover sourdough biscuits, covered by a red and white checkered cotton dishtowel. Believe you me, there wasn’t a preacher within twenty-seven miles that hadn’t dropped in several times for afternoon coffee and a (don’t mind if I do) “snackâ€
