POMEGRANATE
Most people my age can remember where they were when JFK was shot, when the twin towers fell, and when they first came face-to-face with a pomegranate. I was seven years old when I watched Phil Kiefer, who lived across the street, rip a pomegranate off of a neighbor’s tree and struggle to break it open. Despite never having seen a pomegranate before, Kiefer’s excitement had me thinking it must be something very special. Eventually, Kiefer won the battle, tore off a wedge and handed it to me. In short order I was pricked by the rind, gagged by the tannins in the pith and had my teeth gnash on the seeds. The lengths people go to overcome the ordeal of removing the seeds and avoiding permanent stains on everything they own, should signal to anyone sane that it's more trouble than it's worth. Decades passed with me adhering to a zero-pomegranate lifestyle until I sat down to eat a dinner made by my wife’s Iranian friend Ladan (the Persian word ...