Thanks to Donald Trump, I joined most of my friends under a black cloud for much of 2017. That’s likely to continue, but I’m determined to recognize the bright spots. Here’s one:
I buy a few pomegranates every year, and I’ve been inspired by some beautiful dishes highlighting them. Many years ago, during a spectacular dinner at a Slow Food conference, I enjoyed chiles en nogada in Puebla Mexico. When I visited Lebanon as part of an exchange delegation for a women in politics project, we were served fresh pomegranate juice by charming children in an alarmingly regimented mountaintop school. After I discovered Yotam Ottolenghi, I couldn’t resist his eggplant in buttermilk sauce, studded with these gorgeous seeds.
But this year, I was motivated by my granddaughter Aloisa’s curiousity about yet another round red fruit. So I brought home a perfect specimen. To my delight, Loi helped her mom extract the seeds, experimented with them by adding them to water (Look! It’s red! ) and, although she wasn’t thrilled by the taste (It makes a squirt in my mouth!) I was still flattered when she referred to them as pomegramma seeds. I’m easy.
It’s the little things….