The Fatal Fruit

My childhood home was always filled with children's voices. My aunts and uncles lived with my parents and grandparents in one house and entrusted me to watch over my younger brothers and cousins. I acted like the Mother Hen, protecting my siblings and cousins to make sure that unnecessary bruises and bumps were avoided. Characteristic of a close-knit family, we children shared everything together: toys, games, puzzles, illnesses and food. My grandmother was a fantastic, talented cook and my mother, her apprentice; my family was lucky in that scrumptious, creative dishes were always laid out on table for us, ready for savor and consumption. It's still very clear to me how my grandmother and mother would often spend 3 hours on preparing and cooking a meal just to suit the different tastes and preferences of each child.

When I started elementary school, I didn't speak a word of English. I hadn't even memorized the letters in the alphabet, let alone be able to able to discern the unique curves and lines that distinguished them. My parents decided to enroll me in private school, thinking that the one-on-one time would be beneficial for my academic progress. The first few weeks of school were incredibly daunting but like many other children parallel situations, I was able to cross language barriers and become friends with my peers.

My elementary school was located on a large, isolated field. The school had its own goats, chickens and garden. The school children reaped the delicious fare, often taking extra eggs home to our respective families. One night, I brought home a pomegranate.

My mother cracked it open while my brothers, cousins and I gathered around the kitchen counter on the tip of our toes, marveling at the bright red seeds that peeked out from underneath the apple-like shell. After realizing that it was a fruit, however, my brothers and cousins found it less appetizing than the Nintendo that was still laid out on the carpet and retreated back into the living room to resume their Duck-hunting game. I stayed, unsteady on my toes and wishing that I had the poise and balance of a ballerina. Finally, my mother handed me a blue and white bowl, filled with red, juicy, subtly-translucent arils. I grabbed a spoon.

I lightly scooped up a few arils and slowly raised the spoon to my mother, afraid that a sudden movement would cause the arils to take flight. My mother smiled at me, leaned down and took a bite from the spoon. I walked over to the living room.

I settled down onto the stained cream couch and watched my cousins jump around the TV, pointing at the flying disks on the television screen. I carefully portioned the amount of arils on my spoon and hesitatingly raised it to my lips, afraid that those arils will, for some reason, taste like the bland tofu that I despised so much. I closed my eyes and allowed the spoon access beyond my lips. I bit down.

My eyes flew open. The juice from the seeds were nothing like I had ever tasted before and having lived in Taiwan, I had been spoiled by the delicious juices and meats of tropical, exotic fruit.

I couldn't help myself. "Mmmmm!" I exclaimed to the other children while gazing down at the ruby red jewels balanced meticulously between my palms. My cousins and brothers, with their interests piqued, shuffled over to the couch to look into the bowl.

"What's that?"
"Are you eating it?"
"Isn't that a fruit?"
"How do you eat it?"
"Can I have a bite?"

I looked up at my four-year-old cousin in his matching yellow pajamas. I raised the spoon to his lips and instinctively, he leaned forward just as I carefully slid the spoon cradling the balanced arils into his mouth.

I waited for his response.

He chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, then broke into a smile that reached all the way to the top of his ears. "Oh Pearlie. It's yummy!"

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I was so excited when Janny from POM Wonderful contacted me, asking if I would like to try out their pomegranate juice. I couldn't even type my "Yes, please!" quickly enough.

So far, I've incorporated the POM Wonderful juice in smoothies, pom-enades and salad dressings, but wanted to do something a little different yesterday.

When my parents came home from a long day's trip to LA yesterday, I greeted them with this: