Tis nearly the end of melon season and nobody is as regretful about it than I am. Every September, I find myself in an angsty teenage phase where I am unable to appreciate the next round of late-summer fruits, like plums and figs. Though delicious, these purple-hued mini treats don't hold a candle to the mouth feel or sweetness of watermelon, and it makes me feel like Sadness.
The roadside vendors don't have the same draw either. Melon men: they cradle their giant fruits, bending over in denim jeans, stacking melons into tidy piles. Some like to knock on the rind when choosing the perfect one, others prefer to shine them with cotton towels, like Jesus Quintana before presenting them for inspection and purchase. Glistening with sweat and effort, they sell these Hulked-out pieces of sweet, chin-dripping flesh like it's going out of fashion.
We tried twice to grow watermelon from seed in our patch of grass at home, but to no avail. We just don't have the touch, so I will impatiently wait for their return next summer and I can horrify my children again with my nightly rendition of eating the famous Great Outdoors 96-ounce steak - but with watermelon.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.