Pomegranates get the ugliest groupies

The world of fruit is one in which I've happily come to think of myself as something of an eclectic. Not one to resist newcomers onto the scene or defiantly stick with what I grew up with, I like to think I'm an open audience to all types and styles that find their way to me. Not to say that there's anything wrong with those mainstream classics; L'Orange, Grape Bunch, Loose Apples or The Fair Trade Bananas. Contrarily, there's very good reason why those cats get all the airplay and lucrative promotion deals - They know their fanbase well and they give them what they want with such gut-busting delivery they leave them screaming for more long after the encore. I'd even be the first to admit there was a time in the mid-nineties where I could be seen pounding the schoolyard tarmac in my Reebok pumps adorned with side slung canvas backpack, the words 'Punnet O' Satsumas' embossed in fat black marker upon it, loudly proclaiming my fandom to all who cared to gaze upon my angst-filled little form (And if you knew me in High School it wasn't any of the girls, at least, none of the pretty ones) For me though, the world of fresh produce is one that becomes much more fulfilling to be in once you familiarize yourself with some of the slightly grungier, indie acts on offer. Consider if you will the fuzzy alternative Kiwi, the psychedelic charms of dragon fruit or perhaps even some up tempo mango.

Laboured metaphors aside, there wasn't always such a merry, symbiotic relationship with myself and my inner fruit enthusiast. Time would be that my fruit intake would consist of separating and spitting the sultanas out from a mouthful of wholesome, store-bought, microwavable curry. My cheerful progression towards a middle age beleaguered with certain obesity and heart disease was thrown into imbalance by an anecdote a family friend would lay down on me as a young, impressionable father. As a school teacher she'd went on to tell me - in a tone of nothing but concern and dismay for our own society - of how one of the pupils had been so thrilled with the school's "Try Something New Day" as it had allowed him to sample the delights of a food he'd never had before: A strawberry.

Since then there's been something of an ongoing crusade in my kitchen to keep it stocked with as many varied fruits as possible. A mission that brings a perpetual smile to the face of my three year old daughter, to whom no end of cherries, blueberries or strawberries is ever enough. That said my attempts to bring new entries into our weekly rotation are not always without the occasional catastrophe. For example, there was a period, not too long ago, where I would have advised everyone to avoid mango. "Mango's are shit. Don't ever eat one" is how I seem to remember it would go. I'd tell everyone I met while my traumatizing mango experience was still fresh in my head about what a tropical abortion it had been and how they should never, under any circumstances, eat one. More often than not they would just smile politely fearing for my mental state, and on one occasion I was even asked to leave the church, or they'd call the police. Then the tale of my encounter would find itself falling on the ears of my daughter's godfather. He only had one, rhetorical, opinion-changing question for me: "Don't tell me you ate the skin?"

The most recent mishap entry to be assimilated into my ever growing tasty fruit playlist, as you may have predicted by now, was the pomegranate. Not a mishap you understand where, as with the mango, I ate it in an inappropriate fashion - more so that the whole eating experience, once it came to an end, reaffirmed my comprehension that there are some naturally produced things in this world, which are also abysmally awful. A title I had always previously though was best reserved exclusively for use when describing the latest children's box office offering from Hollywood.

You see, Pomegranate: The Self-Proclaimed Superfruit had long since established me as a casual fan with it's accessible, easy listening crowd pleaser '100% Juice'. I decided it was only fair to see what joys were to be found with the fruit itself. Imagine my chagrin as I found the whole affair to be altogether quite far detached from where my hopes had lay. Despite having now at this point having eaten two of the things, I still have no idea what their redeeming, enjoyable qualities are supposed to be.

I suppose it's only fair to start with it's outward appearance. It's here that in a rather tenuous way we can find something to enjoy about the pomegranate right away. Just have a look at it. On first glance, before holding it to any further scrutiny doesn't it bear a striking resemblance to the household onion? There we are then. Aren't onions nice when chopped fried and sprinkled liberally over a cheeseburger? After that I swear to you there's nothing else I could even force myself to enjoy about this seed-laden disaster. The infrequent smatterings of flesh that can be found throughout, leave you with the impression you just ate the proceeds of a rather starchy leaf of lettuce that mated with an even more starchy piece of cardboard. Perhaps flesh bashing is superfluous though; everyone knows when you crack open a pomegranate, the arils are where all the action is at. Trouble is, with every tasty, juice-filled pod of redemption it puts your way there's an obnoxious, bitter little seed determined to ruin the fun for you. The juice is by far the most enjoyable trait to be found here but with the acrid flavour of the flesh and seeds aggressively seeking council with your taste buds throughout, it becomes a hollow victory at best. The question that presents itself though is this: Which is the best way to enjoy said juicy trait with minimal interruption from the fruits many bring-me-downs? The most obvious answer is to eat the pips themselves and spit out the offensive seeds yet this is cumbersome at best, nauseating at worst. Squashing them in a bowl with the back of a spoon seems to the best way to get things done, yet this sends rogue sprays of juice flying at your eyes, nostrils, clothes, walls and disgruntled family pets. The unfortunate thing for me was that by the time I'd put this technique into play my daughter had fetched a second spoon and began to enjoy lapping up the juice faster than I could procure it. This left me rather disgruntled, wearing the blood spattered look of a zombie apocalypse survivor and, with a stomach rather less full of sweetly sour juice than hers.

I'm assured by an oft relied on source of information that the pomegranates I ate owing to their bright red hue were in fact "bad ones" yet I'm still in no hurry to rush out and try a "good one". The only way I could ever see pomegranates working their way into my regular rotation would be on the condition that the non-bad ones, tasted at least 9000 times better and came packed with a crate-full of a less shit fruit, free of charge. I put it to you that the pomegranate is a dried out one hit wonder. A superfruit he may well be but it's a success story he owes to laying back, resting on his arils and letting the royalties roll in, from the one, big, juicy hit he had in his prime.