The Simplicity of Watermelon

Summer as a child. One of the purest, simplest times imaginable. No school, no homework, none of the crippling social anxiety borne of having to interact with the same people day after day, and never really figuring out how to talk to them...

Sorry. Back to simpler times. Days spent dozing til noon, taking your time with everything, no real plans or concerns. Spur of the moment trips to the pool...only daring to dip your toes on because it's so cold, then venturing further...further...until you're having (and losing) contests to see who can hold their breath the longest, or who can reach the bottom first. Then going back home damp and giggly and drenched in that glorious chlorine smell that everyone else seemed to hate.

And the food! Homemade ice cream (always strawberry or vanilla), hot dogs and hamburgers slathered in mustard and chili...the smell of a charcoal grill is pure nostalgia to this day.

But by far the best and simplest summer pleasure was watermelon. Walking into the store and feeling your heart leap when you saw them stacked high in that giant cardboard box. Watching Daddy study them carefully, make a selection, and hold it up to his ear as he rapped his knuckles on the rind to make sure it sounded hollow enough. Taking it home, putting it in the fridge...and then waiting. Waiting for it to be deemed "cold enough."

It was usually the next day. But oh, what a day that was! Asking Mom ONE more time. And then, those magic words..."It's cold enough. Let's ask Daddy to cut it." Running and begging him to go to the kitchen RIGHT NOW.

And over what seemed like an eternity, he would make his way to THAT drawer, and pull out THAT knife...the watermelon knife. The biggest knife in the kitchen, it seemed imposing and off-limits well into teenhood. Daddy was the only one to use it, and only for this one purpose. Sometimes it needed sharpening, which of course made the wait even longer. But it also made that much sweeter the moment when it was finally done, and big juicy slices of watermelon stood waiting in the little cake pans, so as not to get juice on the counter.

Watermelon is ALWAYS better with salt. That's what Mom said, anyway. And so of course it was true. So the salt shaker stood waiting alongside the little cake pans full of pure summer joy. This part was almost like a game; watching Mom salt her watermelon, trying to judge exactly how much she had used, and then trying to shake the exact same amount onto your watermelon (Mom was the expert on these things, after all.) Sometimes you got it exactly right, sometimes you didn’t use quite enough, but just let it be out of fear of overdoing it. The sweetness of the watermelon was the main attraction, anyway. The salt just highlighted it.

All sitting down together to share this moment, it felt like home. You did your best not to get juice all over yourself, but watermelon doesn't want to be neat and tidy. Like childhood, it's messy and sometimes unpredictable. And so you almost always wound up with hands and face sticky-sweet as you carried the rinds to the compost pile, to return to nature the remnants of your treat. There was always a small pang of sadness in tossing them onto the heap, and watching the ants and flies swarm immediately. Now there was nothing for it but to wait. Wait for the next grocery run. Wait for the giant cardboard boxes piled high with summer goodness. Wait for Daddy to find the next perfect watermelon.