As I was traipsing through the grocery store the other day (I was shopping without a list, as I am wont to do, so I made a conscious effort to traipse, rather than meander, as that would be shopping listlessly, rather than merely shopping without a list), I came upon a stand in the produce aisle that made my heart soar and my mouth water. At last, at long, long last, the pomegranates were here.
While others spend late summer in anticipation of the turning of the leaves, I spend most of my waking hours yearning for the arrival of my beloved pomegranates. I cannot relate the happenings of my sleeping hours, as more sensitive readers would surely turn as red as the sweet, sweet fruit around which my dreams revolve. Such was my joy at my discovery in the store that I couldn’t help but cry out “O Pomegranates! At long last, you are finally here, even as I felt I could survive no longer without you!” and embrace the startled woman standing nearby. Fortunately, her initial shock turned rather quickly to amusement (unlike the burly guy on whom I planted a kiss, and who apparently does not share my passion for pomegranates).
Pomegranates are not for the lazy. They require a bit of work before they'll surrender their succulent seeds, but the reward is well worth it (much like, after pestering Cyndy Lou Wannamaker for a year and a half in high school, finally getting to hear her siren voice utter the words “Jesus Christ … if I go out with you once, will you promise to leave me the fuck alone FOREVER?”). Further, it is of great import that one not wear white during pomegranatercourse, for though god’s forgiveness may cleanse your blood-stained hands, he’s pretty much useless when it comes to pomegranate stains. If you’re wearing white after Labor Day, however, you are not of the social standing to be eating pomegranates, anyway. It’s sort of like eating guacamole after Arbor Day.
Speaking of days, I have no problem with certain things having celebratory days designated for them. Things like "Talking Like A Pirate" and Being A Veteran are, of course, in this category. For other things, however, a day just won’t do, and I’ll take this opportunity to remind my readers that November is National Pomegranate Month.
I must admit to some apprehension concerning pomegranates. They are native to Iran, with whom our relationship is currently tenuous at best; the Spanish word for them is Grenada, who we invaded (sure, it was during finals so all their soldiers were taking tests, but still … U-S-A! U-S-A! WOOOOO!); and the French word for them is, ironically, grenade. It sure seems that anywhere there are pomegranates, there’s blood. I don’t think that was an apple, Eve.
I dunno … I guess if biting into a pomegranate means losing my innocence and being banished from paradise, well, so be it. Losing my innocence after getting Cyndy Lou Wannamaker hammered on vodka pomegranatinis wasn’t such a bad deal, in retrospect.
Above: What better way to get drunk and seedy?
[Update:] Faithful Reader HRC recalls that, after the Waco debacle, President Clinton tried to lift the spirits of Attorney General Reno by playfully singing "Don't go cry to your mama, Janet ... just have yourself a pomegranate!"
6 days ago