TheBanyanTree: sacred fruit

[SarahAnne Hazlewood]

I go through a lot of old T-shirts in November and
December.

All the odd, rag-tag shirts ones – promotional shirts
that I get in the mail from Lufthansa and Ed brings
home from Pratt and Whitney; environmental ones that
come in the mail because we sent someone a donation,
or because my father did (he’s a real soft touch);
radio stations; library read-a-thons; fundraising
events; even some cool ones that became discards
because of laundry disasters or the fading of too many
spin cycles.

T-shirts do their final tour of duty while I dye the
banners for another advent season.  They cover up the
little ones who create masterpieces for holiday gifts
and for the school auction that will happen in
February.  They get fingerprinted and splashed as I
create scarves and comforters, table runners and
T-shirts for my family and friends.

The really lucky ones, however, are offered up to the
ritual of the pomegranate.

I love pomegranates.  

I love their name, their color, and the weight of one
in my hand.  I love the moment’s pause when the
grocery checker tries to remember the code for this
odd fruit – sometimes they are even trying to remember
its name to look up in their little SKU cheat sheet.  

There is something magical about a food that is
interesting and different while being neither
disgusting nor actually exotic.

I love waiting for the pomegranate.  They are a
seasonal fruit.  I know that all fruit is, technically
speaking, seasonal.  Pomegranate, however, are still
in that niche where big producers haven’t started
hunting for a way to unnaturally extend their season. 
They show up when they show up.  They are expensive,
but they are rare and every season they are as rich
and sweet and juicy and luscious as you remember. 
That cannot be said of peaches and oranges and apples
and pears, which have sadly lost their quality due to
the marked demand for quantity.

So even a grocery store pomegranate has all the
character and body of a country lane fruit stand and
it has the mystique of a fleeting season that must be
embraced – even in the hubbub of the holidays – or it
will be gone.

I love the mystery of the pomegranate.  I love the
taste and texture of pomegranate.

Even more, I love the ceremony of it all.

The eating of a pomegranate is a full body experience.
 Even if you are a very tidy sort – which I am not –
it requires planning, focus, and a certain amount of
protection against very colorfast juice splatters.  

That’s where the T-shirts come in.

To properly address the fruit, I change into a
sacrificial T-shirt.  I locate a
functional-but-no-longer-decorative dish towel (pretty
easy since most of them were wedding presents some
dozen years ago).  Then two bowls – one smaller one to
hold the pips and a larger one to handle the peel and
pithy membrane from around the pips.

I sometimes watch TV while eating a pomegranate. 
Reading a book is, of course, impossible.  Much too
much stickiness involved in this meal – eating a
pomegranate is a two-handed adventure!  

This year I’ve discovered the fun of watching the boy
child play his video games while I enjoy my treat. 
It’s certainly more engaging than most TV shows, and
he loves having a voluntary audience.  He has my
attention without having to say “watch this, mom!” and
“check it out!”  I have a sweet floorshow to accompany
me while I feast.

A sharp knife is important as well.  

Now, there are different schools on opening the fruit.
 My sister, who shares my pomegranate passion, cuts
hers cleanly in half while still in the kitchen.  This
does provide immediate access, but you cannot help but
cut through some of the seeds.  It makes a mess of
juice and, well, there is something wonderful about
cutting off just the top – the stem part – and then
gently prying into the fruit.  The knife helps you get
started, but then your thumb can follow the lines of
the segment – separating pulp from pip, gently
coercing the fruit open without shattering the tender
bubbles of nectar that surround each seed.

My sister also differs in the consumption of the
fruit.  Once cut open, she pries the segments apart
and then bites the pips directly from the pulp – like
eating sweet red kernels from a misshapen ear of corn.
 I admire her face first approach to all of that
richness.  I wonder at her abandon and the speed with
which she can complete her feast.

I’m not a timid person – far from it – but some
passions are best unraveled slowly and then savored
without distraction.  After following the curves and
peeling away those inner membranes, I gently pop the
seeds free from the fleshy tissue and into the
awaiting bowl.  Section by section, I clear all the
juicy bits away, set aside the empty white shell, and
carefully open fruit to another beautifully tiled
layer of fruit.

Only when the separation is complete – when one bowl
is filled with rind and pith and the other holds all
the seeds and my hands are rinsed; only when my hands
are rinsed and the speckled dishcloth is set aside;
only when the pure, perfect, crimson fruit is ready
and I am filled with anticipation and hunger; only
then do I eat the tangy little seeds – biting into
each mouthful of seeds and feeling them explode in my
mouth – releasing all the sunshine and richness and
bounty of the season.

-sash


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