My knife bleeds pomegranate across the pristine surface of the large bamboo cutting board. And I curse my favorite fruit in silence while admiring its bloody, gory, glory.
Red-blooded royalty amongst produce, pomegranate does not simply submit to be eaten; it cries out in agony when you cut it. Not one to slip silently into the forgotten memories of calories consumed. You don't just casually pick up a pomegranate on the checkout line the way like you would a pack of gum or a banana. No, buying a pomegranate takes planning and conviction, or a laissez-faire attitude envied by lesser mortals. Eating a pomegranate is a commitment. You don't simply snack on a pomegranate while writing a term paper or riding the bus. You cannot steal a pomegranate from your roommate. Not unless you want to get caught redhanded.
There is no appropriate attire for eating pomegranates, nor appropriate room of the house. A pomegranate's thousand ruby red hearts explode over skin, metal and stone with carefree abandon, leaving a thousands more little stain-resistant blotches and trails. Ever given your four year-old a pomegranate to eat by himself? Neither have I. Those juicy nuggets bouncing up and out of the bowl, escaping and then hiding in plain sight, that is, until you step on them. On the carpet. Defiant little fuckers.
Truth is, you're never really the same after eating a pomegranate. And neither is your house.
Makes me think the only ideal way to consume a pomegranate is to rip it in half triumphantly over the heaving bosom of your glistening, naked lover as you climax together and the cool foam of ocean waves rush over your bodies in the setting sun. Shove one half in your mouth, and the other half in theirs. Let the ruby red rivers of ecstasy trace souvenirs down your neck as they drip into the surf. Anything less seems so ordinary.