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.”…
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