As I stood in the fruit section of the supermarket half an hour ago, contemplating the rock hard nectarines and the incredibly overpriced honeydews, I want to take a moment or two to celebrate my favorite fruit.
This was the summer of watermelon. Actually, just about every summer is watermelon saturated, but this summer, aside from the one when I was pregnant with Iz, was above and beyond. In fact, I'm relatively certain that Iz's great love of this sweet, crunchy, thirst-questing fruit is directly related to the fact that by the end of my pregnancy, during a claustrophobic heat wave, I was eating watermelon every day. I'd waddle slowly across the street to the supermarket, spend as much time as possible in the highly air conditioned produce aisle, and then make my way back home, half a melon balanced on top of my belly. That would last for a day or two and then I'd be back for more. In fact, when I surprising found myself giving birth 4 weeks before my due date, Jon ran home to pack a hospital bag and brought half a watermelon back with him.
And so Iz and I share a love that goes beyond love. It's a craving. A need. And a thrill to find watermelon that's perfectly sweet, perfectly ripe, perfectly crisp.
Those days, at least for now are gone.
But during the summer we discovered that buying a whole watermelon, hard as it was to carry home, was our solution. We'd pick out one that felt right, shlepp it home, and I'd cut away. We'd polish off half before we'd even thrown the rind away, saving the rest for the next day.
After a couple of weeks of this, the cashiers in the supermarket were laughing at us.
I don't blame them.
But we were in watermelon love.
We never really got to say a proper goodbye. The last watermelon we had was past season. It was pale, slightly mealy, no sweet edge to sink our teeth into.
So now it's apples. Pears. Bananas here and there. Not that there's anything wrong with them.
But I'm already dreaming of my first wet, red crunch next summer.