Weathering Persephone's Folly

Behind the scenes alongside several mealy apples: One baggy rust colored zip up topped with a lemon lime t-shirt which unabashedly broadcasts the bunched outlines of underlying fabric. Black high performance fleece socks ensconced within fuzzy cotton candy pink anklets. There might be a black shearling vest with faux leopard print involved. And yes, also pants (black denim) hardly worth mentioning. I am not sure which the worst crime is, wearing this jumbled up assembled ensemble, or not caring. After a month of dressing like I’ve been camping out in cold weather carelessly smashing together several days’ worth of outfits at once, I am beginning to feel like a local.

More notable than this makeshift attempt to mind the clothing gap between fall and winter, or the reassuring glint of duct tape in the glove compartment of my vehicle is my growing preoccupation with weather. Once a time ago I noticed this small town banter which everyone seemed to participate in and assumed it to be polite folk’s filler employed when no other topic was close at hand. It seemed cathartic and unifying, collective worried fret over what it was going to do to someone’s tomato plant, late hour football practice, or throbbing arthritic back. Slowly I began to sense the formidable presence of this mercurial character through the whips-o-wind, squeeze of barometric pressure and the dips and glides in humidity, presiding as honorary person at the start of a conversation before silently retreating to the background. Between straight talk of moose sightings, bear break-ins and wild turkeys hurling through living room windows, there is plenty of gazing into the vast sky slack jawed and silent, waiting for the next big hit.

Well the forecast of now is gloomy. The trees have dropped their leaves in panicked mass exodus and I am being watched by the growing odd assortment of winter squash in my kitchen. While I am sure that in few month’s time I will relax into the mellow embrace of Butternut, Kuri, and Hubbard and root for rutabagas diced and roasted, for now the mere thought of squat vegetables pried free from the ground or behemoth gourds anchoring a straggling vine leaves me flat. With months of steamy Dutch oven meals lined up on the frozen horizon, I crave a reprieve in the form of zip, juice and fire. For this brief moment in time feed me sweet and plucky pomegranates.

Put aside the fact that in recent years these juicy jeweled orbs have been touted non stop as the latest super food capable of slowing the ravages of age on plump tender cells. Pomegranates have been sought after a long while, even suspected for being that infamous apple in the Garden of Eden. They have been found dusty and entombed headed straight for the afterlife within a mummy’s coffin. Even Persephone, kidnapped fair maiden took pause to partake of a few kernels capturing the heart of Hades, thus committing her a season out of the year down under.

Punica granatum originally hailed from the arid sunny region of the great Persian Empire before sprawling wide laterally. Perhaps they have captured the taste and fancy of people across time because the fruit joins the inaccessible sacred with the secular and even profane. Their red leathery hides provide ample protection from the elements and surprising contrast to the delicate jam packed delicacies inside. Cradled and partitioned within filmy membranes are some six hundred and thirteen ruby colored seeds which are thought by some to correspond to the number of mitzvot in the Torah. To break the seal of this seeded apple is to witness another small miracle, the sign of thirst quenching abundance in the desert. And who can look at the parting of this open juicy harvest without blushing just a little? Under taut puritanical cover there is bursting vitality and carnal pleasure waiting to be known. On the one hand pomegranates are seen as symbols of fertility and marriage decorating religious scrolls and ceremonial bed linens, on the other its associative imagery (shrapnel looking blood soaked seeds) has caused its name to be linked to destruction begetting grenades of the hand.

Finally getting to the point, the fruit’s nectar is cranberry like but brighter with a pronounced tannic bite. Popular in Middle Eastern cuisine, the time is ripe for adopting some sun and sensuality into my own New England kitchen. Standing one timid toe on the cusp of winter with temperatures plunging, this royal globe adorned with its own diminutive crown encourages me to take heart. There is juice to be found within the hardest substrate and thankfully, there will always be spring to follow on the mean heels of winter.

Muhamarra (Turkish Walnut Garlic Dip): Adapted from Fiber for Life Cookbook.
I really can’t say enough about this nosh. It is sweet and fruity with a swift burn. No long hours in the oven reducing to oblivion. Plus it is hard not to pronounce it (practice rolling those “r’s”) without feeling a little racy. Warning however to those that take offense in too much garlic.

Ingredients:
2 roasted red peppers seeded, skinned, and stemmed
2/3 C toasted walnuts
2 crushed garlic cloves
¼ C olive oil
1/3 C toasted breadcrumbs
1 tsp toasted ground cumin
½ tsp red pepper flakes (more or less)
3 tsp Pomegranate molasses, can use a little lemon juice too
½ tsp salt

Pomegranate seeds and chopped parsley for garnish

Directions: Blitz all ingredients except garnish in a food processor until it forms a uniform consistency. Allow the flavors of the dip to develop a few hours before eating. Garnish and serve with crackers/ pita. Actually it works on just about anything.