Holidays for my family always include pomegranates. It’s probably related to harvest and the concept of “plenty,” but frankly all the food my family enjoys is labor-intensive and conducive to sitting around to shoot the bull. Pomegranates, lobster, quahogs — decadent yes, but more importantly they provide for lots of solid conversation time.

We’ve been picking apart pomegranates since wayyy before the California orchards realized this fruit could be profitable. Precisely one store used to carry them, an Italian shop in Boca called King’s, across from where I later took the LSAT. King’s imported their produce and their pastry techniques; we went before every occasion to stock up on both.

Remember that myth where someone descends to Hades armed with dire warning not to eat *anything*? She weakens for a moment and eats three pomegranate seeds. Whoever is the protagonist thus gains control of her time and she finds herself inclined or forced (I don’t remember which) to stay for three years, one year for each seed.

As I sit this morning cracking open what tastes like my millionth familiar pomegranate I can’t help waxing nostalgic. I can’t help but joke to myself that my father likely hopes that I, too, will find myself bound. That I and my brother will prolong our stay, proportionate to the number of seeds we eat.

It’s funny that every family has the same nostalgia — that happy families *are* all alike! Holidays are so ripe with cliche, and the older I get the more I embrace that. K


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