Have you heard of the “Pomegranate Effect?”

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The other day, I went to my local supermarket chain in Berlin to buy a jar of pomegranate seeds. I was on a mission to make a warm cauliflower and chickpea salad and the pomegranates seemed like an essential component.

I scanned the shelves but couldn’t find any. I was about to head home disappointed but thought: well, what’s the harm in asking?

“A jar of what?” the man asked. He was tearing off the cellophane from a huge packaging cart of yoghurts. “Pomegranates? I didn’t even know they came in jars!”

He was small and wiry, with twinkly eyes. I`d have put him past retirment age.

“Oh, well thanks anyway,” I said brightly, turning to go.

But he wasn’t finished.

“You know,” he said. “I used to work in 𝑅𝑒𝑤𝑒 [another supermarket chain] at Alexanderplatz right after the 𝑊𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒 [the German term for reunification]. One day, someone came in looking for still water! Can you imagine?”

At this point, I need to translate something.

In German, 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 means silent. You know as in 𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝑁𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑡 (Silent Night)

But it`s also used to describe non-sparkling water: 𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑊𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑟.

“And do you know what I said to them?” he said. “I said to them: well to be honest, I`m not in the habit of conversing with water!”

He´d abandoned his packaging cart to tell me this story. He went on to describe how confusing it was suddenly to be bombarded with so many new products from the West. He kept mixing up bottles of wine with bottles of vinegar. It was a lot to deal with.

Why am I sharing this story? Couple of reasons.

For one, it made me reflect on Germany`s reunification history. About the stories that never get told. The people who`ve worked stacking supermarket shelves all their lives, first in the Communist East, where they could name all the products, and then in the West, where they were suddenly confronted with worldier customers demanding bottles of 𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑊𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑟. Against the backdrop of so much jubilation, it must have been a difficult psychological shift.

It also made me reflect on how much our shopping baskets reveal about who we are. I live in a world of roasted cauliflower and pomegranate seeds. He most definitely does not. If I hadn`t approached him, our two worlds would never have collided.

As a journalist, it also reminded me of what sometimes happens at the end of an interview. You think you`ve asked all the important questions, your guard is down, you`re winding things up, and suddenly you find yourself in a conversation of far greater candour and depth, making the rest of the conversation feel almost irrelevant.

I call this the “pomegranate effect:” the meaningful connections that arise when we seek greater depth not in order to fulfil an agenda but to satisfy genuine curiosity.

Our everyday lives are full of them and as a business journalist, I think our coverage of the economy could do well to include more of them. What are some of your pomegranate moments?

“Free pomegranate fruit image“/ CC0 1.0

Bobo! How my daughter´s literary tastes and mine align

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Remember daily vlogs? Oh, I used to love them!  The more mundane the better. I`m talking teeth-brushing (does the stranger on the Internet pace restlessly and dribble the way I do?) grocery shopping (what aisles do they frequent and why?) grooming (mascara every day or just on special occasions?). 

 They`re probably still a thing on YouTube but I`ve slipped out of that world, what with becoming a parent and being busy, exhausted and slightly sick all the time (also occasionally profoundly fulfilled and in love, but who wants to read about that?). 

Anyway, the good news is that I have found the children`s version of a daily vlog, thanks to some dear friends who gifted my daughter her favourite book. 

The protagonist is a dormouse called Bobo. Unlike other children’s books heroes, Bobo`s life is not one of great adventure. In fact, he does what most of us do: gets up in the morning, has his breakfast, goes out for a constitutional (often to the playground), does some grocery shopping and reluctantly goes to bed. 

But it`s the small moments within Bobo´s simple life which form the heart of the story. “Uh-oh!” my daughter exclaims,when Bobo spills his cocoa at breakfast. She too has knocked over a beverage or two in her time. “NEIN!” she remarks, wagging her finger when Bobo`s grandmother shows him what a butterfly is and warns him not to touch its wings. “Ah!” she agrees when Bobo stands on a box to help him reach the door handle (alarmingly, she doesn`t need a box anymore.) “Arghaargha!” she shouts in excitement as Bobo gets on the carousel, only to decide immediately that he has had enough and wants to go on the see-saw instead (how often have I been there?). 

The fact that our literary tastes align may not come as a huge surprise. But it is interesting to me that my daughter`s favourite book is not an exciting one, but one set at home, punctuated by quiet humour. In literature, I too find myself drawn towards the lives of ordinary people (or dormice) in ordinary settings. By far the best recent example I have read is “Marzahn mon Amour,” by German writer Katya Oskamp. The winner of this year´s IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, it’s the story of a writer struggling to sell her book (relatable content) who becomes a chiropodist to supplement her income and collect stories (possible idea?). It`s a wonderfully tender, funny, achingly real portrait of everyday people in the Berlin district of Marzahn and how their stories present themselves in their feet. 

It was also a reminder of what I look for in a story: humanity, specificity, humor, tenderness (Bobo has it all!). With the journalism industry facing a triple assault from AI, precarious business models  and public spending cuts, it also offered up  a possible alternative career pathway.  Could I too retrain as a chiropodist? Would the experience offer up a sellable idea for a novel? 

Most likely not. Katja Oskamp`s talent is unique. So while I`ll hold out on a radical career change for now (or until I have no choice) I`ll cherish the time spent with Bobo and my daughter. And who knows? Maybe I`ll even start a daily vlog. Or re-cultivate a similarly outdated medium like this poor, neglected blog.

Quarantine

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“It`s positive.”

The paedetrician`s assistant had been first to see the stripe.

Our poor little chicken: snot-encrusted, phlegm-filled, glassy-eyed.

Her red-hot forehead buried in my chest.

We had all thought it was something else.

I texted LSH. We had to isolate.

I was already shivery and a day later, the second stripe showed up for me too.

LSH left food at the door. Ratatouille and polenta. We video called, like it was 2012 and he was in Edinburgh and I in Berlin.

The chicken`s temperature went down.

LSH started coughing, and we were reunited.

Three out of 3.8 billion people to have been struck by this plague.

Inordinately lucky to have a comfortable apartment to isolate in. Neighbors who offered to shop for us. Technology to entertain us. The freedom to close our eyes and bathe in the early autumn sunlight streaming in the window.

We got off easy. A headache. A persistent cough. A sore throat. And much fatigue.

As the days went by, brightness returned to the chicken`s eyes. She drank gallons and gallons of milk, some in her sleep, some while LSH and I binge-watched Succession.

Over the summer, I photographed a swine lying on her side in the forest, feeding her six piglets. How did she do it, I wondered. All that relentless tugging. The mother-body is a marvel.

Twice I dreamt of Logan Roy. He and his children were an enduring part of our isolation. “Which of them is the worst?” LSH asked each other over dinner. “They´re all so awful. And so real.“

Maybe it was because we weren`t taking the bins out, but the apartment filled with flies. I saw a pair of them copulating on my laptop keyboard. At night, we were maddened by their buzzing.

In the outside world, lots happened. Over dinner one night our phones buzzed, telling us The Queen had died.

Atrocities continued to be uncovered in Ukraine. A colleague is there, documenting it all.

Her courage is extraordinary. Like that of many others on the frontlines of this unspeakably awful war.

Insulated from it all, I finally finished Young Mungo. Briliant and bleak and the opposite of life-affirming. Afterwards, I needed an escape and found it in an odd Japanese novel, There´s no such thing as an easy job, about a woman`s mundane yet profound observations as she takes on a series of strange and boring jobs.

The chicken became more vocal every day. HE DE. THE KE. AYDA, she would exclaim each morning, yawning afterwards to reveal her five and a half teeth.

She discovered a new hobby: tearing toilet paper. LSH and I would sacrifice a roll now and then. She was so happy, sitting there, ripping off the sheets one by one. When she was done, she would crawl to us, and present them as an offering.

LSH and I were well enough to embark on a seven-day YouTube quarantine yoga challenge with Tim Senesi. After months of working with Adriene and her German equivalent Madi, he provided some much-needed novelty to our days. On one occasion, his perpetually sleeping dog awoke suddenly and barked, causing me to tumble out of my triangle pose in fright.

In the evenings, we made lists for the next day. Yoga with Tim. Showers. Coffee. Clean out kitchen cupboard. Make humous. Clear out sideboard. Read. Watch Succession. Hoover. Mop. Sleep. Write to friends. Do taxes.

On the eleventh day, the chicken and I tested negative. To celebrate, we ventured to the doctor to pick up a sick note.

The seasons had changed while we were in isolation. It was cold now. Brown and orange leaves swirled beautifully in the wind.

On the way home, we passed an old man on a bicycle.

He looked just like Logan Roy.