Friday 2 November 2012

Pulp reality

Our table outside looked like something from a Tarantino film yesterday - height of Pomegranate harvest time, and the knives were out.
These marvels of nature are the only think our garden really grows well apart from tomatoes; I've started planting a small orchard of them.
I love them for many reasons: the flavour, the colour, their cheerful flowers, the fruit from its green marble-ness through to the splitting, burnished finality.
A reoccurring motive for artists across the centuries, I can recall seeing their rounded forms carved into stone above doorways, on castle tapestries and in a thousand paintings from Caravaggio  to Cezanne and beyond.
Every year I mean to start a 'fete' to celebrate them We have fetes of everything else here: potatoes, pumpkins, truffles, wine – of course; snails, asparagus, bread, fois gras, charcuterie, ticks - nah, not really.
There's probably one more batch of jam to be made from the remaining tree, then I might ask a few people who seem to disregard their own crop, leaving them to fall. How can anyone ignore these fruits and leave but a few for the birds to pick over as the weather chills.

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