Marcel Proust had madeleines, soaked in his aunt's lime-flower tea, but for me, the lost flavors of youth were weirder. When I was growing up in Iran there was gojeh-sabz—green, sour, unripe plums sprinkled with salt. There was khash-khosh, the large poppy bulb containing white seeds that kids loved to snack on (my brother and I later learned they contained a mild dose of opium). But my true love, the food whose memory left my mouth parched and my heart aching, was the pomegranate.
In Tehran, pomegranates would make their appearance just as the year's other fruits were shriveling away. The air would turn crisp, the mountains on the city's northern edge would gleam with new snow, and my father would arrive home to our basement apartment in the evening carrying a heavy paper bag crammed with pomegranates. Ecstatic, my little brother and I would empty the bag and grab at the hard red globes that rolled across the table. We'd each pick one and knead it with our thumbs, expertly crushing the insides without splitting the skin. Then, when it felt as squishy as a water balloon, we'd sink our front teeth in like vampires, puncturing the surface and letting the tart, red juice flood our mouths. Our thirst slaked, we'd cut a new pomegranate into quarters, peel away the transparent inner lining, and bite in. We munched on the ruby-colored seeds and chewed their hard pips into a buttery pulp that washed down the sweet, tangy flesh. After three or four pomegranates each, we looked as if we'd survived a sword fight.
The anar, as it's called in Iran, was a culinary and linguistic staple. It was the fifth word that first-graders learned to read, right after water, father, gave, and bread. It was a central ingredientin fesenjan, the succulent duck-and-walnut stew that is an Iranian delicacy, and a source for the deep reds in Persian carpets and Persian miniatures. It was our equivalent of the Western apple; our winter's daily fruit; the round, red icon every child knew intimately and saw everywhere. At sidewalk juice bars, the proprietor would slap a few pomegranates into an aluminum squeezer and produce a glass brimming with a slightly acidic elixir that dissolved the soot and grime of the city. On autumn trips out of town, we'd spot tall mounds of the fruit on the side of the road and buy them off the farmers. On a visit to my aunt's pomegranate orchard, in a village five hours southwest of Tehran, I wandered dreamily among dwarfish trees whose branches, with their yellow-and-green cigar-shaped leaves, sagged with fruit so ripe the skin had split to reveal the glittering seeds. Each pomegranate carried the individual tree's flavor, and every tree had to be tried. Some tasted light and floral, others had deep, smoky undertones. Inhaling the sharp, fresh air, I lugged a crate of pomegranates up to the house to devour them beside the kerosene heater.
I was hardly the first young girl to be seduced by pomegranates. It happened to Persephone, the ingenue of Greek myth, long before me. After she was abducted by Hades, lordof the underworld, her heartbroken mother, Demeter (goddess of the harvest), thrust the world into famine. To end it, Zeus intervened, commanding Hades to return the disconsolate Persephone to earth. But Hades had tempted her to eat a few pomegranate seeds, which bound her to rejoin him for a portion of each year. Demeter created weather to matchher grief—and winter was born.
The Greeks weren't the only ones to cast the pomegranate as seductress: some scholars now say the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden was not an apple but a pomegranate. In Buddhism it is one of the three blessed fruits, and in Judaism it is a fertility symbol as well as a reminder of the Torah—each fruit is said to contain 613 seeds, the number of its commandments. Chinese nuptial chambers were strewn with pomegranates for a fruitful union, and in some Berber cultures, a woman would drop a ripe pomegranate into a circle drawn on the ground—the number of seeds that fell outside it predicted how many children she would bear.
While the pomegranate is believed to have come from the Middle East, where the summers are hot and rainless, the English word derives from Old French (pome, for its shape) and Latin (granata, for its granular insides). Pomegranates in turn lent their name to garnets, for their color; to grenades, for the way the seeds fly out when the fruit is dropped; and, some believe, to the city of Granada—the Moors brought the fruit there from the East. The pomegranate's leaves helped heal bruises, and its root peels repelled insects. It may have even served as an early form of Prozac—the prophet Muhammad is said to have told his followers: "Eat the pomegranate, for it purges the system of envy and hatred." But my favorite reference is from Persian mythology, in which a hero named Esfandiar becomes invincible after he eats the fruit. It makes perfect sense to me: my father, the heroic provider of pomegranates, is named Esfandiar, too.
My pomegranate childhood ended abruptly in January 1979 when the Islamic revolution swept through Iran. For months, anti-shahprotesters had rioted in the streets. Schools and businesses were closed, and the whole country was on strike, causing shortages in gas and electricity. As dusk fell and gunshots echoed in the street, my family huddled in my uncle's apartment upstairs, playing cards with our cousins around the candlelit korsi, a low table covered with blankets and quilts. Finally, on a snowy night two weeks before the Ayatollah Khomeini arrived and three months before I turned 12, my family boarded a plane for the United States.
The supermarkets in America were enormous, but they didn't hold a single pomegranate. You could occasionally find one in a specialty shop, looking forlorn, like a new immigrant who hadn't yet found a job. Even before tasting them we could tell that these shriveledtransplants would be dry and flavorless, good only for adding a splash of red to a table setting. Living in Portland, Oregon, a city too wet for pomegranates to grow in, my mom learned to fake her fesenjan with tomato paste and brown sugar.
For me, pomegranates became a casualty of the revolution, stored with gojeh-sabz and khash-khosh and other memories of my now-inaccessible childhood. In their absence these foods became mythological, and I even began to doubt that people still really ate them. If such stalwart institutions as the Persian monarchy or my American-run school in Tehran could be toppled, surely pomegranates didn't stand a chance.
Even when I moved to California, whose climate is much closer to Iran's, people I met had either never seen pomegranates or felt intimidated by them. "They're too hard to eat," they would say. "Too many seeds." "Not worth the effort." With a preacher's passion I defended the fruit, seeds and all. But eventually I gave up. California's markets were stacked with plenty of other fruits to rhapsodize over.