Eating a pomegranate.
The skins vary, though the shades are always autumnal. This one is the colour of the wind-reddened cheeks of an old countrywoman in a picture book, and is satisfyingly smooth, yet a little uneven and bumpy, suggesting the swell of the seeds inside.
The knife cuts through crisply, and the peeled back segment reveals seeds startlingly scarlet againstst the creamy pith. Sometimes the seeds are paler, more delicate in their pinkness, but these are lush and tempting. A push of the thumb and a group of them separate with a crunch. I hold the pomegranate to my nose, trying to identify the qualities of its faint scent - somewhat earthy, not particularly fruity. The seeds keep their juices, their scents, held tightly.
A seed at a time to start with, each one rolled around the tongue, smooth as a water-worn pebble - then the bite, a small explosion of juice and the crack of the hard, slightly bitter centre. The pith, the layers of skin betwent the clusters of seed, are more bitter, and if you should accidentally chew them they dry the mouth and linger on the tongue. And this is easily done, because now I am breaking the fruit apart, grabbing handfuls of seeds and filling my mouth with a delicious tartness. Oh Persephone, the restraint you showed in eating only a pitiful half-dozen seeds!
The juice stains everything purple. At last, nothing but peel is left in my sticky hands.
Crossposted to artspark