Indian Apples

It's pomegranante season again and I am a happy camper. I just cracked open the second one of the year, under water, letting the seeds sink to the bottom and the peel and pith to the top.

When I was little PolackPappy would bring them home as treats; we called them Indian apples. Thankfully this was not any sort of ethnic slur as the Indian referred to the country in Asia, not the tribes killed off by our founding fathers (among others). Next to the apple half filled with peanut butter and studded with raisins (McMumsy's answer to dessert six days a week, and on the seventh day there was ice cream) it was my favorite fruit. Why? Because Pp served it to us in halves, in a bowl, and I would sit and stain my fingers red picking the seeds out one at a time. I loved the honeycombed layout. You just kept eating, and eating, and eating and just when you thought there was nothing left to eat you'd find another little red juicy crunchy tasty nibbly bit.

Good times, man. Good. Times.