Pomegranates and Their Role in Cretan New Year Traditions

The Fruit of Autumn That Carries Into the New Year

As autumn deepens in Crete, pomegranates spill into view everywhere—piled high at markets, gleaming in baskets on doorsteps, and heavy on the branches of garden trees. Their ruby seeds seem almost designed for ritual: bright, abundant, and messy in a way that speaks of life itself. By December, the fruit has ripened into its starring role—not just in kitchens, but in the turning of the year.

Cretans, like many Greeks, place the pomegranate at the heart of their New Year’s tradition. On January 1, after the family returns from church or the first gathering of the year, the ritual begins: someone takes a pomegranate and smashes it against the threshold. The more seeds scatter, the more luck is expected to follow in the year ahead. Children rush to count them, though no one ever keeps up—there are too many.

The practice is so common that almost every household has its story: which year the fruit bounced instead of breaking, which year the seeds flew all the way into the garden, or which year the juice left a stain that lasted until Easter. It is a ritual not of precision but of exuberance.

A Symbol Older Than the Ritual

The pomegranate’s role in New Year’s luck is a modern echo of far older beliefs. In Greek myth, the fruit belonged to Persephone, goddess of spring, who ate its seeds in the underworld and thus tied herself to the cycle of death and rebirth. For centuries, the pomegranate has symbolized fertility, abundance, and continuity.

In Byzantine iconography, it often appears in the hands of saints as a sign of eternal life. In village stories, it becomes a shorthand for blessing and growth. Even today, many wedding gifts in Crete include decorative pomegranates—painted, carved, or fashioned from metal—as tokens of prosperity for the couple.

The smashing at New Year’s may seem playful, but it sits on this long thread of meaning: by breaking the fruit, families hope to break open the promise of the year ahead.

A Family Scene Repeated Across Crete

On New Year’s morning, villages and towns echo with the sound of pomegranates meeting stone thresholds. In some homes, the father of the family performs the ritual; in others, it is given to the youngest child, who brings innocence and freshness to the act. A common phrase spoken at the moment is: “Με υγεία κι ευτυχία!” (“With health and happiness!”).

Neighbors sometimes compare whose pomegranate was the juiciest or whose burst the widest. It is a communal ritual as much as a private one. Even in apartment buildings, where courtyards are scarce, residents will gather in stairwells or front entrances to let the fruit do its work.

The smell of pomegranate juice mingles with the crisp air of January, and for many, it is the first true sign that the year has begun.

From Ritual to Kitchen

Cretans do not let the fruit go to waste. Beyond the symbolic smashing, pomegranates feature in a variety of local dishes. The seeds brighten winter salads with a sweet-sour bite, balance the richness of meats in festive meals, and appear in spoon sweets served to guests. Some families prepare syrups or molasses from pomegranates, continuing older traditions of preserving fruit for leaner months.

The visual appeal is part of the point: a plate dotted with ruby-red seeds looks celebratory even before the taste. In this way, the pomegranate carries the same double role it always has—both nourishment and symbol.

Holding on to Heritage

For Crete, where customs are often bound to the cycles of nature, the pomegranate is more than a pretty fruit. It represents a conscious link between generations. The act of smashing one at New Year’s is both an offering and a declaration: that the family remains rooted, that the year will be full, and that joy—like the seeds—will scatter in every direction.

As Minister Lina Mendoni once said about monuments, heritage is not just about preservation but about giving it back to the community. The same could be said of the pomegranate ritual. It is a piece of intangible heritage that returns, reliably, every January, renewing its relevance not through institutions but through households.

So when the clock strikes midnight and Crete’s skies fill with fireworks, the fruit waits quietly on kitchen counters and window sills. By morning, it will have had its moment: smashed, scattered, and shared—an ancient red promise that the year ahead will be rich in more than one sense.