One of my not so secret secrets is that I don't eat fruit. It isn't even so much that I dislike it, I just don't eat it. I never crave it. If I go to the kitchen to get something to eat, I will never come back with an apple or an orange. I - just - don't - eat - it. If I eat a desert, I do NOT want the blueberry crumble. I don't know what a blueberry crumble is, but I am sure that I would pick out the crumble to eat.
A couple of weekends ago my dear friend Molly came to visit and I know she loves fruit. She always brings a new fruit smoothy or crescent roll stuffed desert that she is sure will be the one thing to convert me to the fruity side. It never works.
In my trip to the store to prepare for her visit (wine and champagne anyone?) I saw a little personal seedless watermelon. It was so cute, just this little miniature version of one of the few fruits I like ... and I mean really, really like. No debating here whether it is a fruit or a vegetable. I need to eat fruit, so it is a fruit.
The first morning that Molly was here, I cooked a full breakfast ... scrambled eggs with cheese, crispy bacon and hot biscuits. Then Molly and I halved the little watermelon and dug in. It was wonderful. Perfectly ripe, sweet, juicy and not a seed in sight.
Molly and I talked and laughed and solved the world's woes over that watermelon. It was great!
This week I bought another watermelon. I went through the bunch and thumped the way Mom taught me. I picked the one that wasn't too big but had that great hollow sound that Mom said meant it was ripe. I lugged it up the stairs and put it in the fridge ready for the perfect time.
Today I brought out the watermelon. I sliced it into the exact right sized piece and settled myself at the kitchen table to eat it. It was perfect - ripe but not too ripe. But something wasn't right. It took me a minute to realize ... eating watermelon is a group activity.
If you are anywhere near my age, you know what I mean. Eating watermelon was an event. Whether from the garden, the guy with tomatoes on the side of the street or Wilson's Grocery Store, it was a big deal when your mom put a watermelon in the fridge. And it was never small. It couldn't be small. It had to feed a bunch, because everyone always gathered for watermelon.
At our house it was always after dinner. Dad would take it outside to carve it. Halved, quartered, eighthed. (right now that's a word) The men would eat the quarters. Kids and women got the eighths. Everyone had their utensil. I'm a spoon girl and I still don't understand eating it with a fork. Daddy always ate it with the carving knife ... he was the only one who could do that because he was big and brave and it was dangerous. We would eat it outside, I now realize, because I was going to make a huge mess, get it all over me, and need to be hosed down before I could go back inside. It was wonderful. My grandparents lived next door, so they were always there too. I would listen to the grown ups talk about ... nothing. Everyone talked and laughed and enjoyed one another's company. It was the best.
So, my watermelon tasted fine today, but it made me sad. I think I'll wrap up the rest and go find someone to share it with.
