persimmon pudding pie

The snow bugs were right. We had our first snowfall in the city last night. Thick, heavy, wet snow. This snow will melt before the long-term, lingering snow comes; the snow that won't melt until spring. We call the long-term snow ne-yuki, which literally means "rooted snow" (snow that has taken root).

Along with the ne-yuki, winter brings persimmons. We get a big box of them from friends in Shikoku every year. Persimmons go from unripe to over-ripe very quickly, so I've learned to incorporate them into our winter menu in many forms so as not to waste a single fruit.

Once they become too soft even to peel or slice (just before they start to rot), I grip the fruit in my hand and squeeze the flesh out of the skin into a bowl. Fresh or frozen, this pulp becomes the basis for one of my favorite winter desserts: persimmon pudding pie-- a bit of sunshine to brighten our long, dark, freezing Hokkaido winters.

ka ki ku ke ko

You may have noticed that I've been wandering off the path of orthodox etegami a lot recently. And as fun as it has been, I like-- and need-- to return to the basics at regular intervals and wiggle my bare toes in the fertile soil of true etegami.

Here I dangle the writing brush from the tips of my fingers, perpendicular to the writing surface, with my elbow lifted to shoulder level. I move the brush slowly, ever so slowly, so that the line wavers from the strain of keeping my elbow raised and from the friction of the brush against the washi card, while the sumi ink blotches with each beat of my heart. This is called a "living line" and it is at the soul of etegami.

Today's etegami is a simple persimmon accompanied by writing that says "ka ki ku ke konnichi wa." I played with the k syllables in the Japanese syllabary. "kaki" means persimmon. And "konnichi wa" means hello. No deep meaning. Just a cheerful greeting for any day of the year, but especially late fall and winter.