A wonderful New York City moment: the super comes into the apartment I am renting to fix a light, and notices my lemon tree, which is hard to miss, it is now so large. I rescued it years ago from the trash after a photo shoot; it was a stunted, misshapen creature, exactly the kind of thing I bring home. It has flourished, and this year I have a bumper crop of thin-skinned, sweetly tart Meyer lemons.
The super says, I have a persimmon tree over in Queens; I had a great year too. I confess that I am stunned to hear this is possible, and what's more, I have never tasted a persimmon. I thought they were tropical. The beauty of microclimates. The next day he returns with a bag full of fleshy fruit, admonitions to let them ripen, then eat from the top with a spoon. Unearthly, succulent, sharp, nectar. And the color of both fruits, in the middle of cold, drab days. (Plate, of course, by the inimitable Frances Palmer.) What a great trade among near-strangers, garden to garden, heart to heart. Do farmers at market feel this all the time? A wonder.