Nothing like a costume, eh? Tis the season. Just talked to a friend with the world’s straightest hair who wore a wig of curls for a party in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Not incognito but another identity altogether. Last month the Flannery O’Connor childhood home held a fundraiser party. The theme? Dress as your favorite author. As Virginia Woolf I wore a black wig (yuck; how do these Orthodox women do it? Couldn’t wait to yank it off my head) and a black jacket with a note and an arrow that read, “stones,” referring, of course, to the way she committed suicide, by walking into the sea loaded down with weight. Amazing the number of people who didn’t know Woolf or remember how she died (didn’t you see the movie, “The Hours” with Meryl Streep I prodded?). Haven’t you read her? She remains very readable, very relevant. PS For the same party two friends, Betsy and Carmela, went dressed as me. I could be flattered. Instead I’ll just say, what could be an easier costume? Dungarees, a t-shirt, a pair of scissors in the back pocket and some collard greens sticking out of a pocket.
For me, this month, this year, it’s pomegranates. They’re filled with antioxidants. Their seeds represent the number of mitzvahs you’re supposed to do everyday. They’re everywhere. Four live, home-grown specimens on my 38th Street Garden tree. At Sam’s. At Kroger’s. In many recipes of our favorite new cookbook, Marcus Samuelsson’s “The Soul of a New Cuisine.” At Rousse’s, a Louisiana chain of beautiful-food grocery stores. That’s where I bought this yummy take-out mini-meal version with the collapsible plastic spoon for my ride on Amtrak’s “City of New Orleans” train from N.O. to Chicago. Pomegranates: they’re the future.