polka dot suitcase

While trying to think of a title for this post, I thought: Wouldn’t it be great if my name were Janet? Then I could call it, “Pomegranate Janet” and it would make more sense. “Pomegranate Kate” just doesn’t have the same oomph. I suppose I could talk about a fruit that rhymes with Kate instead of about pomegranates, but I can’t think of any off the top of my head, and besides, I really want to talk about pomegranates. Pomegranates are like the lobsters of the fruit world. You’d be wise to wear a bib while eating them. They’re a pain in the rear to eat. But worth it.

The first time I had a pomegranate, I was in third grade. My best friend cracked one open in her kitchen and we shared the seeds. Two things stuck in my memory: one, that I’d never had this weird fruit before, and two, she was allowed to just go in her kitchen and eat whatever and whenever she wanted. And make a mess, too. That pomegranate, jimmied open by an eight-year old, left a trail of finger-, shirt-, and counter-staining destruction. And there was the time that she grabbed a twelve-inch chocolate Easter rabbit and started banging its tummy against the table to break into pieces we could share. Instead, its head popped clean off and rolled right across the floor. We couldn’t do stuff like that in our kitchen.

Anyhoo. About the pomegranates. Off and on over the years, I’d grab one in the produce section if I saw them — but you hardly ever saw them. People in mainstream America just didn’t know what they were or what to do with them. Then they got this rep as a power food, and people got all into them. The result: Every single grocery store I walked into today had a huge bin of pomegranates. Yippee!

And furthermore…I’ve got my own kitchen now. There’s pomegranate juice all over the counters and chocolate bunny heads on the floor. So there!

Okay. Not true. But there are probably some little tumbleweeds of dog hair and miscellaneous crumbs.  Now go eat a pomegranate.