My Unlikely Favorite Fruit

Olga Strougovshikova, artist, Tivat, Montenegro

Pomegranates! I never even saw a pomegranate until I was fifty-something, browsing in an open-air market in Cairo. I picked one up, sniffed, and rolled it between my palms until the shopkeeper, who had no doubt seen this clueless behavior before said, "Can I help you, madam?"
"What is this?"  I asked.
After a few quick squeezes to soften the skin, he pressed his fingers firmly into the leathery fruit and pulled it apart. Red popped out in all directions. Brilliant, shiny red - of poppies and rubies, cardinals and lipstick.
"Try," he said.
"What? The seeds?" 
I could tell his patience was wearing thin; so I picked one, one lonely seed from a mound of hundreds.
That's all it took. The mostly sweet, slightly sour juice burst into my mouth as I crunched the kernel.
I bought that one, three more and came back each week for a fresh supply.
    

---

​So you can imagine my excitement when I arrived in Montenegro to find pomegranate trees in almost every yard, scattered through open fields and along remote hiking trails. A neighbor kindly shared a handful of her tree's abundance, and I've spent the last hour removing seeds.
​Pomegranates make me work for their goodness.        
​   

I've watched multiple de-seeding methods on youTube, some decidedly faster like the hit-them-with-a-wooden-spoon method; but I prefer the more meditative cut-them-open/pick-out-the seeds technique. Fifteen minutes may tick by as I stand contentedly at the kitchen counter – working on one pomegranate – sleeves rolled up to my elbows and dishcloth tucked in my collar to evade the juice squirts that speckle everything in sight.    

But the reward is worth the wait . . . that is, if I can successfully wait. The temptation is great to pop a few along the way. Just one seed here, a handful there.
Excuse me – sorry to eat in front of you. Come to Montenegro, and I'll share.
​