Counting Our Blessings

A good holiday season should slow things down, allowing us to reflect on the past and imagine the future. I spent mine quietly—thinking, resting, and counting my blessings.

Before Christmas, Chef Tim Cook ordered a case of plump pomegranates for our winter menu. When power outages forced us to close early, I noticed them sitting untouched in the walk-in cooler. I took a few home.

Peeling one slowly, I was transported back to childhood evenings in Iran—long, cold nights warmed by the hum of an ancient cast-iron oil heater, my mother or grandmother sitting across from me, telling stories while skillfully seeding a pomegranate. The house was vast and frigid, but that room was a warm temple.

They never ate the fruit themselves. They just peeled and spooned the seeds into my mouth as if feeding royalty. Between bites, I’d hear the lullaby of blessings: “May your good deeds outnumber these seeds. May your children and grandchildren multiply like them. May your blood run red with vitality and love.”

There is a holiness in being fed by someone who asks for nothing in return. In this transmission of grace, I felt seen, adored, and blessed.

A child is never spoiled by being told too often that they are loved and blessed. Instead, it anchors them to something eternal. So, channel Abraham, place your hand on your children’s heads, tell them they are loved, and bless them. Often. Lavishly.

And if this winter you find yourself alone, peel one for yourself. It functions as a form of meditation and a sacred act of self-love. This season, I peeled a few for my son, Dustin, and a few for visiting guests. I ate the rest myself, one ruby seed at a time, savoring the blessing on my own tongue.

— Sina.