Pomegranate Jean Janzen We live in a valley of Biblical fruits. Grapes, figs, olives, and pomegranates thrive in this subtropical climate. The soil of an ancient seabed combined with hot summers and the irrigation of mountain snows combines into a fertile setting. In our own garden, a lovely, gnarled fig tree spreads its many arms and large, rough leaves, then supplies us and the birds with at least three crops of pale pink succulence every summer. Even our neighborhood fox jumps up for the ripest ones. Our one pomegranate tree offers its sweetness in autumn, the weighty balls of rosy skin clinging to the branches of lacy leaves as the seeds gather sugar until their pouches split, ripening just in time to be placed in honor on our Thanksgiving and Christmas tables. Our first pomegranates in Fresno arrived as a gift to my pediatrician husband, a shopping bagful. What to do with these unfamiliar globes? “Cut them open and suck out the juice,” my husband said, as he stood over the sink in a kind of rapture. Suck and chew and spit out the seeds in primal joy. The children were enthralled while I somewhat carefully let my teeth sink in to release the astringency, this juice that is both sweet and tart. When I discovered that the splattered stains were almost impossible to remove, the new rule in the house was for the children to take off their clothes and sit in the bathtub to eat this strange fruit. The seeds are bright jewels in a leather‐like cup, divided into sections of white parchment. Amazing and ancient. I fell in love, and each year press them for juice to drink and to make jelly. Other times I meticulously remove the seeds for salads. The grandchildren remind me each year to make their favorite Jello salad, which features the seeds whole, softened enough in the gel to swallow them. And at Christmas, I send home with them a jelly jar of this exotic fruit, each spoonful like a large ruby on bread or waffles. Fruit of mythology. In the Greek myth of Persephone, the pomegranate is called the fruit of the underworld. Persephone is persuaded to swallow one seed, resulting in the requirement that she returns into the dark earth for a part of every year. Pliny offers advice on preserving this fruit by hardening them in seawater, then drying them in the sun for 3 days. Homer places the tree into his Garden of Alcinous. In the Muslim Qu’uran, it is called the fruit of Paradise. It is the Biblical source that intrigues me most. The tree is mentioned in Haggai, Song of Solomon, Deuteronomy, Numbers, First Samuel, and especially Exodus. In the instructions for the Tabernacle, pomegranates are to be attached to the hem of the priests: “They made pomegranates of blue, purple, and scarlet yarn and finely twisted linen around the hem of the robe. And they made bells of pure gold and put the bells between the pomegranates all around on the hem of the robe, alternating a bell and a pomegranate all around on the hem of the robe for the service, just as the Lord had commanded Moses.” This instruction with its repetitive phrasing sounds like a song or poem, lifting the fruit into textile art, exciting the senses as they shimmer between the ringing golden bells. The High Priest enters the Holy of Holies through the dyed curtains, the elements of earth crafted into beauty and swinging around his feet. What has this to do with a Mennonite woman taught to live simply and frugally? My lessons in preservation of fruits and vegetables began when I was tall enough to lean over the kitchen counter to peel and slice, hours at a time. It was tedious, and it was the way of winter survival—corn, peaches, peas, beans, tomatoes, and even chicken. The gleaming jars were carried into the cellar to which my mother’s friends were invited to view the harvest behind glass. Canning changed to freezing when I moved to this valley, and soon fresh produce was available year around. I have the luxury to choose, sometimes slicing luscious...