Sinfully good

Published On: April 13, 2009

Pomegranate—like caviar, lobster and avocado—is one of those foods served in such miserly portions that you never seem to get your whole tongue around the taste. Slightly less scarce than hen’s teeth, the ruby seeds are seldom seen in quantity exceeding a sprinkling of pine nuts, and consequently are doomed to roam the earth as nothing more than garnish.

The cautious servings just might be wise. Who would tempt the gods with a lusty mouthful of pomegranate seeds after what happened to Persephone? When the goddess of spring was whisked to the underworld to live as Hades’ morbid queen, Zeus agreed that she may return to her mother, Demeter, so long as she had eaten nothing during her stay.  Alas, Persephone had sucked on some pomegranate seeds (legend varies between three and nine seeds), so she was sentenced to return to the underworld for the winter months, which, interestingly, are the only time of year that pomegranates are available.

It’s a poignant story, laced with archetypal undertones of sexual misconduct, maternal love, the cycle of life. Whatever. I just can’t get over the notion that she ate only three to nine seeds. Puh-lease. Demeter is the mother of grain.  The goddess of bread. Hello? And her daughter eats just three pomegranate seeds? No wonder Persephone felt like she was in Hell—she was starving.

Spurred by the overwhelming seasonal chic of pomegranates this year—they’re in everything from centerpieces to cocktails to caramel sauce—I bought a bag of the leather-skinned fruits and a bottle each of pomegranate juice and syrup from the International Food Mart on Thompson Lane. I mixed cocktails of pomegranate juice and anything I could find: club soda and lemon, apple juice, ginger ale. The color was lovely, and the drinks were refreshing, but really nothing more magical than cranberry juice.

(It turns out this comparison is a sore spot between the pomegranate and cranberry growers of the world. When I mentioned it to the spokesman for the California-based Pomegranate Council, he was quick to say, yes, maybe the taste is similar, but pomegranates kill cranberries—and prunes, blueberries, green tea and red wine, for that matter—when it comes to antioxidants.)

Determined to get the most of my nearly three-dollar fruits, I mixed a vinaigrette of fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice, olive oil, red wine and the usual dressing suspects. Pomegranate flavor was decidedly lacking until I added a trickle of the syrup—or pomegranate paste, as it is called on the bottle—which adds a tangy pucker and a nice thickness. I drizzled the mix over a salad of mâche, then sprinkled with a stingy pinch of pomegranate arils, which I painstakingly plucked one by one from their membranous pockets, cussing as the crimson juice shot out of each little sac and onto me, the floor and my children. More a daughter of Demeter than Persephone, I ate the salad but soon found myself puttering around the kitchen in a ruby-splattered sweater looking for a stack of bagels.

The next night, I took a different approach. Risking banishment to the underworld, I set out to eat as many pomegranate seeds as I could possibly want. I sliced the crown off the fruit, cut the orb into sections and submerged the fruit in a large bowl of water. Underwater, the seeds pull easily away from the pith with virtually no splattering. After straining off the water, I had about two cups of rubies, more decadent-looking than any bowl of beluga. I stood at the kitchen sink and indulged in spoonful after sparkling spoonful of pomegranate seeds until, surprisingly, I was full. Next time, I will mix them with cubes of avocado, feta cheese and pine nuts and drizzle with pomegranate vinaigrette. I expect it will be one hell of a salad.