Delightful mishap

Peeling a pomegranate is never an easy undertaking. Its skin is thick and tough, mandating a sharp blade with good heft. The weight must be equal to the task. The fruit's juice will immediately run and stain fingers and counters, but the deep rich, reddish, purple is so delightful that you enjoy seeing it. Its fragrance is delicate, tart, rich and dry all at the same time. I simply have to inhale and run the risk of purpling my nose.

After I half the pomegranate, I want a grapefruit spoon to dislodge the first seeds. They cling tightly to the skin in clusters that always have more seeds than I expect. After the first ones have been removed, I have to dig in with my fingers, curling back the skin, letting the gel covered seeds loosen themselves, then gently nudging them off the peel into the smallest of my Wedgewood Countryside bowls. I love the contrast of the richly colored, sensual fruit in the delicate old maid china.

The pomegranate, Persephone's trap in the underworld and ancient tool for divination, is one of the most visually appealing fruits I know with its slightly irregular shape and deep hue. Having just a single pomegranate in my kitchen can make me feel surrounded with luxury, and eating one is a treat whose emotional gratification is equal to chocolate.

Tonight, the womanchild wanted my pomegranate, and I said she could have it. I thought her palate had matured enough to appreciate its taste and texture. She brought the pomegranate halves to me in my office, and I started working on curling back the skin. The seeds exploded from the fruit, pelting me, tumbling down my shirt and my legs, piling on the floor at my feet. After my initial exclamation of Oh Shit, I had to laugh. How fitting. How wonderful. I was literally splattered and drenched with the tangible symbol of femininity, creativity and fertility. For someone who revels in the mystery of the universe, looks for signs and symbols but laughs at herself for doing so, this can only be good.

pomegranates, omens