On the coffee table in my lounge I have a bowl of pomegranates.I buy them even singly, when they are very expensive in off season, much as I do lemons and limes to fill various bowls in kitchen and lounge and dining room. At the moment they are in abundant supply, and I can get 4 for the price that I have paid for one at times. They have almost the same exotic appeal as persimmons. More appealing to eat for most people though. There’s nothing quite like cracking open a ripe pomegranate on a stone or granite top, and see the red ruby-like inner seeds spill out, the juice promising to stain fingers and floors alike.. “Pomegranate jewels” a clever marketer labels them in a well known chainstore. Pomegranate arils, I read in wikipedia: seed casings.
I remember not liking them as a child: I did not understand what the fuss was about: slightly bitter pale pink flesh around little seeds which needed to be spat out in any case. These were fruit grown on pomegranate trees or vines in the occasional neighbour’s garden, never bought at a greengrocer. In retrospect I think that I used to try and eat unripe fruit. Quite possibly a different varietal even. Not these with deep red inners, a promise of Persian delights, which I buy now.
I buy them to look at. And to occasionally sprinkle the arils over salads. That used to impress my dinner guests.But these days it seems common, already almost passé as a trend in food presentation. Or in couscous when I make a Moroccan dish. Ditto. But it’s really the beauty of the whole fruit, it’s rough reddish skin with that distinctive crown, even the fruit opened up to expose the rich red inner, that keeps me enthralled.
I should have added pomegranates to my previous alliterative entry: parsley, persimmons, pomegranates: poetry in the kitchen. And pots and pans and… and…!