Every year I find I'm surprised by fall's subtle changes that appear even while I'm enjoying a sunny day at the beach in August. The slant of the sun, the darker mornings, the almost imperceptible changes in the color of the leaves, geese beginning togather on the lake. And the appearance of a pomegranate on my breakfast plate.
Growing up, I had no idea that pomegranates even existed. We didn't have exotic foods at our house. Broccoli was about as exotic as it got. But later--way later--in life, I discovered them and immediately fell in love.
I'm not sure why, either. They do taste good, but they are such a pain to process. Every morning I stand by my kitchen sink and struggle to extract those little red arils from their strange membrane from a half of a pomegranate, stopping to corral the runaways skittering across the counter to what they probably hope is safety. Yes, I've read all the articles and seen all the videos professing to have the best method of harvesting these pesky pips, but in the end, I decided that my system works for me.
I think it has to do with discipline. Patience, if you will. It makes me stop in my headlong dash into the day and concentrate on this one task. Not that I do much headlong dashing anymore, at least it gives me a chance to get my head together, to put some sense of order to my day. As a writer, I struggle with patience a lot. If the words won't flow, if the plot doesn't thicken, my first instinct is to get up and do something else. I often have to force myself to sit there and type gibberish, if necessary, until the muse begins to stir once again. Pulling pomegranate arils from their confines is a bit like pulling words out of my head.
So that's my little philosophy for the day. You're welcome.
Oh, and my daughter Peg recently gave me another reason why it's good for me to go through the hassle of my pomegranate. I have to stand. Standing is the New Smoking, say signs in my doctor's office. One more occupational hazard for writers!
Happy Fall!
Growing up, I had no idea that pomegranates even existed. We didn't have exotic foods at our house. Broccoli was about as exotic as it got. But later--way later--in life, I discovered them and immediately fell in love.
I'm not sure why, either. They do taste good, but they are such a pain to process. Every morning I stand by my kitchen sink and struggle to extract those little red arils from their strange membrane from a half of a pomegranate, stopping to corral the runaways skittering across the counter to what they probably hope is safety. Yes, I've read all the articles and seen all the videos professing to have the best method of harvesting these pesky pips, but in the end, I decided that my system works for me.
I think it has to do with discipline. Patience, if you will. It makes me stop in my headlong dash into the day and concentrate on this one task. Not that I do much headlong dashing anymore, at least it gives me a chance to get my head together, to put some sense of order to my day. As a writer, I struggle with patience a lot. If the words won't flow, if the plot doesn't thicken, my first instinct is to get up and do something else. I often have to force myself to sit there and type gibberish, if necessary, until the muse begins to stir once again. Pulling pomegranate arils from their confines is a bit like pulling words out of my head.
So that's my little philosophy for the day. You're welcome.
Oh, and my daughter Peg recently gave me another reason why it's good for me to go through the hassle of my pomegranate. I have to stand. Standing is the New Smoking, say signs in my doctor's office. One more occupational hazard for writers!
Happy Fall!
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