meditations on a pomegranate.

Karen gave me a pomegranate yesterday and I ate it, the salmon softball in my tiffany blue bowl, sitting on my late afternoon sun flooded patio. It was all very cover-of-gourmet-magazine. And that’s what pomegranates are all about. They’re the supermodels of fruit. Gorgeous, luscious, delicious even. But tiring. Like dragging an intellectual conversation out of that waif, it generally takes one quarter of a pomegranate for me to tire of removing the arils, tire of chewing the seeds, all for that brief glimpse of late summer in the bright bloody juice. feeling fatigued with the process I inevitably begin to suck on the seeds, then mindlessly squash them with my fingers, until I find myself looking up pomegranate glazes and champagne cocktails online. I often find that I want to be seen eating a pomegranate, but in private I would rather it was eaten for me.