I T H I N K I M I G H T B E A C R A N B E R R Y… by Gittel Fruma
Six years ago, on a crisp afternoon in Sacramento, a tired mother unearths a bag of cranberries in the bottom of the produce drawer and has a revelation destined to carry her through 2020... I recently realized my deepest thoughts and most treasured aspirations have been polluted by pride. While mulling this over and cooking a late pot of cranberry sauce, I had a revelation. I think I might be a cranberry.
“What’s that you say, crazy lady?” I know, I know. But really. Here’s how I reached this stunning conclusion… I impulsively bought this bag of cranberries and, having never cooked with them before, let them lounge in the fridge for a week. Now they were about to go bad. There’s no time like the present, so let’s make some sauce! I read the package for the cranberries, which included a simple recipe. I was instructed to let the berries simmer until they start to pop. I thought, “Ok, popping sounds fun.” Sure enough, no sooner did my overly ripe cranberries hit the simmering pot of freshly squeezed orange juice, wild honey, cardamom, and clove, they started a-burstin’. Then it hit me: “Sweet gracious, a cranberry I am.”
14 | M AG A Z I N E N A M E PAGE 3 13
