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the ethics of deseeding a pomegranate

The pomegranate in my kitchen has been going off for a few days now. Yesterday, I moved it to the fridge to abate its decline. But still, I am acutely aware, the longer it sits there, the darker red its seeds are becoming, the sweeter and juicier they will get, until finally — disdainfully — they will sour in retribution.

I’ve been thinking about eating it for a week. It would be nice atop a chickpea and cauliflower salad, with a tahini, lemon and parsley sauce. It would be good in a side salad, like a tabbouleh. It would even work as a standalone snack. But each day passes, the afternoon is dark, the evening is coal. I burn my eyes at a laptop working on things I don’t want to; I’m just about eating two meals a day. And it seems ludicrous, the idea of cutting and deseeding a pomegranate, simply as an adornment to a salad.

So we’ve been in a stand-off. I sit at my desk, the pomegranate sits in the fridge. But enough’s enough, I’ve decided, I’m going away tomorrow, if not now then never, and at last, it seems it’s time to cut it open.

Juice is pouring out as I slice the pomegranate into sections of eight and carefully peel it, funnelling the seeds into a small bowl. This is what is so thrilling about unveiling pomegranate seeds yourself compared to buying them in a plastic container from the supermarket. The proof of life. Pre-prepared seeds are so sterile. They do not bleed.

I’m taking my time because the pomegranate forces me to. If I rush, the seeds will run all over the kitchen countertops and floor, every surface will be covered in a glorious red stain. And it’s a bizarre feeling, because I can’t remember the last time I took my time. At work it’s half an hour for lunch, not long enough to go anywhere and barely long enough to cook anything. I often finish food at my desk, because the next deadline is due and there I am! — brazenly still allowing myself time to finish eating. I shower to cross it off the list, but I rush to finish washing my hair and get out and dressed. I want to read but have such little free time I squeeze it in before bed, hardly managing five minutes before my eyes need to close. I’d like to see my friends too, but they often have to be slotted in between other obligations and appointments, as if spending time with each other is not the whole point of all this.

It takes me the whole time it takes my dinner to cook to deseed the entire pomegranate. And I know that I will eat the seeds in a mere fraction of that time, and it will seem so labour intensive for such a short, sweet reward. But I like how the unyielding skin of this fruit has forced me to be slow. To focus on one thing: taking its seeds out. And at the same time, it’s stained my hands and fingers so I can’t do anything else, anything as regretful as scroll on my phone, but focus on the one task in front of me.

Making a living requires serious multi-tasking these days. Everyone’s job seems to actually be three people’s jobs. The pomegranate has not allowed this. Do one task, it says, do it slowly: do it well. And it occurs to me, while I eat the sweet seeds of my labour and let them stain my hands once more, that if you don’t have time to deseed a pomegranate, then you might as well be dead.