I just returned from walking AJ to preschool, the first time we�ve ventured there on foot since the weather turned wintry. It�s a glorious, cloudless day, although still cold enough for the grass to be frosted and for a slight aura of steam to rise off the backs of the grazing horses. On the return trip, I cut across the drive to the barn, which only shaves a few steps off my walk but seriously improves the rise of the steep hill, this morning slick with ice, that I have to descend. On the ground at the base of one of the ancient apple trees was a pomegranate. It looked like a glowing coal on the ground against the brown winter grass and fragments of melting snow, cracked open slightly as if it fallen from the tree above, and revealing a glimpse of its inner fruit. I looked around to see if there was any indication for how it came to be there. It is an unlikely path for someone carrying groceries and a pomegranate seems an unlikely choice of a missile for the little boys who like to play in the grassy yard opposite the barn. Perhaps a mislaid gift for one of the horses? Do horses eat pomegranates?

I would never waste a good pomegranate on a horse, regardless. They are the most sensual food I can think of. The sound it makes when you dig in your fingers to split one open is almost erotic. To consume one, you must gently dig your fingers in around the fragile seeds. Inevitably you come away with fingers dripping bright pink juice. The seeds themselves are an explosion of flavor � sweet, tart and liquid. But I also love their outward appearance. On my dining room table I have a bowl piled high with pomegranates. Purchased in the height of their season before Christmas, they have achieved and rich and leathery patina.

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I�m heading into the city this afternoon for a little research, to see the new apartment of a good friend, and attend a meeting of my book group at the house of another old friend, the one who introduced me to my husband, who used to work for her. While she has a pretty-high powered job for a major Chicago institution of medicine, in her spare time she has a thriving hobby as a yenta. Two of us in our book group have married and had children with people she�s introduced us to, and I know of a number of other successful couples to her credit as well. It�s a definite gift. Book groups at her house are inevitably wonderful. Something about the space seems to urge discussion. Perhaps it is the array of Javanese shadow puppets on the wall, or the comfortableness of the couches or the food that always makes you feel well cared for.

We�ll be discussing Jhumpa Lahiri�s The Namesake, which I found to be a page-turner, although not as satisfying or challenging as her Pulitzer-prize winning collection of stories, The Interpreter of Maladies. It caused me to lose a fair amount of sleep last week, as I found I had trouble putting it down at the end of the day. Given the state of exhaustion in which I usually find myself after hours, that is high praise indeed.

I�m looking forward to some quiet worktime on the train, an evening with grownups, some lively conversation and a lot of wine.

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