On a whim, I picked up a pomegranate at the store yesterday. I hadn’t had a pomegranate since high school, so of course, neither have the kids. Alone with them for dinner, I scored the outside and opened it up as instructed from my quick online search. The kids stared at it suspiciously. “Do we have to eat that?” they asked. “We’re all going to try it,” I said nonchalantly. I pointed out a few cool things about it and then let them work their way through dinner, during which time I picked at the pomegranate.
I discovered that I do not like pomegranate.
I tried to like it. I ate seed after seed, always cringing at the tasteless crunch in the center. I stared at the pomegranate, its juice staining my cutting board, a little price tag above this crazy experiment. Because I would be stuck either eating this mess, or feeling guilty for throwing it away.
The words were on the tip of my tongue–well, I have to admit that I don’t like pomegranate–when I thought wisely to place a seed on each of their plates. K nibbled at it, sour-faced. M popped the whole thing in his mouth. I watched him without reacting as he worked over that same crunch, his face unsure. And then it broke into a big smile. And then K popped her seed into her mouth. And then both kids were scooping up handfuls of pomegranate seeds, faster than I could extract them.
I also discovered that I am (thankfully) not always the household litmus test.