Good enough

Turning scarcity to bounty with a small shift in perspective

Recently, I found myself lamenting my lack of persimmons. I do not grow them or much of anything anymore, so I rely on the generosity of nature and friends to provide. I had missed the harvest, if there had even been a harvest, which meant giving up a tradition. The dregs of last year’s frozen pulp and the memory of the fruit’s subtle, honeyed sweetness would have to suffice for another season. I was sad.  

It had been a difficult year. Sanity-sucking mosquitoes and politicians, rising costs, gun violence, Covid. Rain when rain was the last thing we needed, sorrow when sorrow was the last thing we needed. Farmers lost crops. Lovers lost partners. Extraordinary people died—people the world desperately needed, people I desperately needed. It was bad.

But, not entirely bad. In late spring, keen as barn swallows at dawn, we had feasted on fresh fava beans. The cherry tomatoes had a banner year. We kept bowls of them on the counter and in the refrigerator, inhaling them like oxygen. Our cucumbers succeeded for the first time in forever. There were a few Chesapeake crabs. Not many, but enough to remind us why we miss them when they’re gone.

On a woodside walk in late November, a friend discovered lion’s mane mushrooms and shared the five-pound harvest. We sautéed them and turned them into potluck dishes. I put some in the dehydrator to prolong the bounty. They weren’t persimmons, but the enchanting wildness of them helped quiet my scarcity thinking.

Later, someone made a run for apples from a farm in Pennsylvania whose orchard is tended with rare environmental care. When I went to collect my share, I passed a small tree with dozens of dusky, orange globes dangling from leafless limbs like vintage Shiny Brite ornaments.

Persimmons!

Back home and heartened, I reached out to the man whose Gionbo tree had once supplied us with abundant harvests. In the future, he said gently, I should call him in October. His forty-year-old tree was close to its end, succumbing rapidly now to borers.  But, yes, he said. Yes! He still had a few persimmons. They were in the uppermost branches, too high for him to reach, but I was welcome to try collecting what I could.

It took two of us, an eight-foot ladder, an extension trimmer, and the deftness required to catch baseball-sized persimmons as they fell. In an hour, we had gathered enough for holiday pudding and sweet bread, for fruit leather and fresh eating, enough to put by for another day, enough to give away.

We talked about how we had nearly missed them. We talked about our food village. We talked about how it is possible that there will always be plenty of what we need if we’re willing to look for it. We understood that to be good enough.

~Elizabeth

As the holidays approach, I find myself thinking about the flavors and habits that tether me—a taste that brings back someone I miss, a recipe I turn to when I need grounding, the ingredients I hoard for reasons I can never quite explain.

Now, I get to hand the mic off to you. If you could conjure one food in wild abundance this winter, what would you choose? Do you have a friend or neighbor who always hands you something delicious at just the right moment?

Let’s chat in the comments. And if this piece meant something to you, I’m grateful for any likes, 💚 shares, or restacks ♻️ which help these stories reach people who might need them. Thanks for being here!