But we do not eat meat. What is in the bowl is pomegranate. Like other exotic produce-- Ugli fruit, Canary Melons, prickly pear, chayote squash-- pomegranates do not show up in Crawfordtucky Indiana. Correction. They used to be the stuff of magic carpets, movies and far away places, like cinnamon and chocolate before colonization. Then in Harvard Medical News wrote in 2007 “pomegranates may one day have a place in healthful diets” and voila! they appeared. They promised to reduce cardiovascular plague, fight prostate cancer, and prevent deterioration leading to arthritis and Alzheimer's. The first one I palmed was in a Pennsylvania Wegmans in 2008. I was thirty. As a gastronomic adventurer, I take my husband on dates to swanky markets. I grope the vegetables, squeeze the fruits, and pretend we’ll buy the wines with the hipster labels. He eyeballs the microbrews. Skip the fashion mall. A Wegmans is to me what Abercrombie and Fitch is to a teenager.
I remember the first time we bought one. Having only heard they “bleed” and only seen a whole one, in a movie some years before, I had no idea how to cut one. In the movie, a Persian refugee tries to smuggle into the United States. Customs stops him. His drought of home explodes bloody in his hand, and he is forced to trash it. He had pleaded that he wanted only eat one in his new home, America. I could recall little else than the blood of his hope, staining his hands, and the sorrow I felt with him. It seemed his heart bled out with juice.
The red leather bound fruit I brought home held a hope for me. A rush of something new. What would it taste like? Of course, anticipation sweetens all things. As it was indulgence in our budget, I planned to save and serve it to company coming in few nights hence. I hoped for succulent fresh- a field trip for my kids taste buds- and a fine pairing for the fair trade dark chocolate.
As I unloaded groceries, I dithered about stowing my one pomegranate in the fridge. For optimum flavor, most fruits should be room temperature. Foodies insist tomatoes should not be chilled, unless at the last moment, to retain the complex flavors. But I am an American and Americans are hyper about keeping anything from the threat of rot. My mother who garden for years seems to have forgotten that all produce is born of heat, sun, and bugs. She will not leave tomatoes on the countertop anymore.
On the appointed night, I took my pomegranate out of the cold, letting it come to room temperature. I made my bread, pureed my hummus, broke dark chocolate into bite-sized chunks, opened the wine and finally, prepared to cut the fruit.
I prayed it would taste something like the real thing, or that my guests would have no idea what a fresh pomegranate tastes like. I curled my fist around its red leather coat, then drove my knife into its flesh. Its blood spirited onto my shirt and face. As I ran upstairs to wash my face and change my shirt, I chastised myself for not buying the expensive Raisinette version of dried seed covered in dark chocolate. No, I committed myself to the foodie foible, serve something exotic, texture of succulent fresh, and prove I knew my rare fruits and vegetables.
I did not deseed the fruit the first time. I served it in wedges, in the living room, with the chocolate. We had napkins on our laps and wine glasses on the end tables.
“Oh, I haven’t had a pomegranate in years,” cooed one guest. “Usually we popped the seeds out she said. I stared at fleshy seeds. How did one get the nutty centers out of the red, I wondered, and still have something to nibble? She meant they separated the white membranes and skin from the kernals. i swallowed the membranes like angostura bitters. They stuck in my throat, as I tried to reply, “Oh, really?” My guest was polite and followed suite.
I haven’t repeated my humbling first serving experience. I learned to seed the fruit. It’s like shucking Indiana popcorn. I use my thumb to pop out the kernels. Brown kernels are a sign of rot. I find them most in fruits I think are ripe, but are actually just old. There may be a better way to test for ripeness, but I use the ol’ Hoosier peach test. If my thumb pressure leaves and imprint, and I hear a popping I take my gamble. I don’t buy them off season any more. Too many times I’ve cut one open to bloodless brown kernels. It’s like slicing open a cadaver. Too frequently these days the produce in the market has this pall of death and cardboard. Most produce is picked and shipped long before it is ripe. Bananas have ripening rooms, sometimes melons are spray-treated. Sometimes the fruit tastes unique to its species, mostly, it tastes like something materialized from a Star Trek food-generator.
Pomegranates are in season now, just before Thanksgiving. Or I think they are. They are plentiful and on sale everywhere. I bought two and did not put them in the fridge. For two days the fruit called my son’s name. He loves to crunch and suck on the kernels. He would love to take his pocket knife out and hack one for himself, but I won’t let him. I know the bloody mess he’ll leave behind. Puddles of dirty pink water where he swirled a filthy washcloth to wipe up the red. He’ll leave a dripping knife, red droplets flung around the kitchen and membranes in the dish drainer.
Perhaps I should look up a mess free way to murder one, I thought, as I cut his fruit. I did and it turns out slicing it under cold water, will do the trick. It’s eerie how like suicide it is. Maybe that’s part of what amuses my son and me, that macabre interaction.
It’s a good thing to enjoy the pomegranate. Someday I will go to a place where it is native and discover, like mangoes eaten in their homeland, it more tender and nuanced that I have experienced. I will use my tongue to pop its seeds and the blood will course in me. It’s a flesh alive, bleeding for the purity of those who know it. I’m fortunate to have some experience, but all life deserves honor in its death Part of me thinks, instead of pomegranates, perhaps, I should explore something local, maybe a paw-paw or persimmon.
