Month: January 2014

Fruit Killer

Have you ever cut open a pomegranate before? I did this for the first time the other day, desperate for something fruity. My husband had brought a few over from a client’s house. They had tried them and didn’t like them. I didn’t even know how to begin to gut one, so I called my mother, knowing she had done it before.

 She told me to cut it whichever way—vertically or horizontally—and scoop the seeds out. Allen had said something about soaking it. I tried both. Mom had said she usually halved it like she would an orange, so I cut it horizontally. She told me there would be some seeds lost in the cutting.

 Intent on what I was doing I paid little attention to anything else. I made the cut, grabbed a spoon and started scooping seeds out into a bowl, imagining them popping open between my teeth, allowing their juice to gush across my tongue. Noting that some of the pith had come out with the seeds, I also decided to soak the seeds to separate out the pith. The scooping was not easy work. Those seeds are packed inside pretty tightly and I had juice running down my left hand as I scooped. At long last the seeds were out, soaked, and the pith skimmed off. I went into another room, determined to enjoy first and clean up later.

 When I went back into the kitchen, I allowed myself to look at the scene of the fruit murder for the first time. It really did look like the scene of a violent crime. There was juice everywhere! It had gotten on the cutting board, spurted onto the counter, splashed onto the wall behind the counter, seeped over to the stove, and even painted the roll of paper towels.

 That section of the kitchen was awash in purple pomegranate blood. As I stepped up to the counter to wipe it down, my toe got wet. Not surprisingly, there droplets on the floor as well. I hadn’t made that big of a mess in that short of a span of time for quite awhile. Not wanting the juice to stain anything, I worked quickly, even though I was starting to do a potty dance.

 Once the kitchen was clean, I allowed myself time in the bathroom. When I stood before the mirror, washing my hands, I noticed that the kitchen was not the only place that looked like the scene of a violent murder. I looked the part of a killer! I had spatters of juice on my face and left arm. As I stepped back from the mirror a bit so I could see more, I realized my shirt, too, bore witness to my fruit victim’s blood.

 The shirt was spattered purple and looked like a Jackson Pollack painting. I was an absolute mess. Fortunately it was just an old t-shirt I was wearing around the house, not something I liked to wear out. I made a note to myself: never open a pomegranate without a paint shirt on.

 The purple will probably not come out of the shirt. There wasn’t enough Shout in the world to get all the spatters. The wall is lightly stained in a couple of places, but so faint you have to know it is there in order to see it. I have decided that maybe cutting open pomegranates isn’t for me, especially since my knives are right-handed and I am not. If I do ever murder another one, I might have to set a large bowl over it to catch the mess as I slice into it’s flesh.

 Lesson learned: fruit murder doesn’t pay. But the seeds sure tasted good!


Want Fries With That?

The title of my blog is now a little misleading. I am no longer a TOTAL lady of leisure. I have acquired a part-time job at the local library, and with that job comes stories. Today was no different.

During customary checkout procedure I take a patron’s card, scan it, and then scan the items being taken home while making sure to unlock any media items and demagnetize almost everything. A woman approached the counter with a young boy who was probably no older than 11.

Now, we all know that kids this age know everything and will continue to know everything until they are about 30. This boy was no different. He thought nothing of placing his mouth on the edge of the chest-high portion of the counter while waiting for his mother.

Mom, on the other hand, thought something of that. Upon glancing over and seeing her son lip-locked with the counter’s edge, she immediately told him not to do that. Of course the boy removed his lips, waited for his mother to turn away, and then placed them back on the smooth surface. I have no idea what tasted so good to him.

Now, I couldn’t let an opportunity to teach the young lad a lesson go to waste. However, boys this age don’t get scared and don’t get grossed out. Ever. I mean, what would their friends think? Still, I felt he needed to know something important about that counter top. Donning my sternest librarian face and keeping my expression deadpan and serious, I asked, “Do you know how many people put their hands there after picking their noses?”

Beep, beep. I continued scanning, glancing up long enough to see him look at me to see if I was joking. Keeping my face locked in a serious expression, I saw the horror spread over his face slowly. It was a lot like the opening scene of the semi-recent phantom of the opera movie when the screen goes from black and white cobwebs to a full color, gas lit opera house.

“Betcha didn’t think about that,” his mother said, seeming to play into my hands. The horrified expression remained on his face until he turned to walk towards the door. “Have a nice day,” I called after him. I wanted to add, “Want fries with that?”