The Wonders of Summer

For me, summer is a time of watermelons. Plump, juicy, tantalizing watermelons, whose flesh bursts in the mouth. Their arrival is a summer breeze—inviting, needed, cool. Red, luscious watermelon. Refreshing and sweet (and preferably seedless), they reign supreme.

Watermelons grace the aisles of grocery stores at the end of spring, like a veritable calling card of summer. They declare that summer, in all her bounty, is on her way. Hot days, juicy grapes, sparkling seas, slurpy popsicles—they are here.

Watermelons call in summer, they welcome in summer food. And the food of summer is like a portal to another world. There we are, eating—at the table, on the beach, in the grass—and yet, something is different. Taste buds have been transported, changed.

Maybe it’s the salt from the sea, those extra crystals that dust my lips as juicy watermelons are devoured to the rind. Maybe it’s the air, hot, bursting, like a balloon ready to pop. Maybe it’s the water—the lingering chlorine from a pool, the fresh tang of lemonade, the essence of cucumber from a pitcher of ice-cold goodness. Maybe that’s why summer, and summer food, just tastes…different.

Maybe that’s why food that was ordinary--and is ordinarily consumed throughout the year--suddenly tastes better in the summer.

Plain old mac-n-cheese suddenly becomes the most scrumptious, gourmet meal. Popsicles seem to, well, pop more, flavors blooming alongside waves of heat. The salt, the air, the water—they all heighten the senses. Together, they open a door somewhere new. And holding that door open, watermelon.

As round as the days are long, watermelon.

As crisp as a spring morning, watermelon.

As satisfying as the last day of school, watermelon.

The harbinger of good things to come, and the recorder of good times passed.

Quintessential, classic, tried-and-true. Watermelon.

Heavy, and brimming with promise. The promise of longer days, shorter nights. The promise of freedom. Freedom from school, freedom to play, freedom to daydream. Space. To imagine, to remember, to savor. To be a kid. To slow down, to speed up, to do it all over again.

I saw watermelons in the store yesterday. I didn’t buy any, but I lingered. I desired. I wished. I remembered. Just seeing them, in their green and white striped glory, made me pause. Filled me with the thrill of impending summer, a twinge of nostalgia, and a bit of sadness. Because summer is still a time for watermelons. And sorbet, and baked beans, and pasta.

But summer tastes different now. Different than five years ago, when I graduated college, the satisfaction of a job well done dusting my lips. Different than ten years ago, when I finished high school, possibilities dancing on my tongue. Different than that hot summer day, my freshly crowned ten-year-old self screaming in delight, adventure flushing my cheeks.

When I saw that watermelon, I remembered all the lovely promises that have coincided with summer. The birthdays, the graduations, the summer adventures. The joy, the laughter, the freedom, the possibility. And with a jolt, I snapped back to my current summer. The worry, the responsibilities, the change, the possibility, the risk.

I’m moving this summer, and the whole thing feels like choosing a watermelon. Will this move be like picking a good one? You know—juicy, red, bursting with sweetness. Addicting, enticing, refreshing. Or am I picking an unripe fruit? You know the one. Seedy, dry, pinkish-white, not quite ready.

I think that’s why I hesitated. I don’t want to pick the wrong one, and I’ve lost some of the wonders of summer. That sense of possibility, of freedom, of new things on the horizon. I’ve somehow adopted the notion that if I pick a bad watermelon, I’m done for. But maybe life can be as simple as going back to the store, choosing again, and seeing what happens when you open it up. In a life full of watermelons, there must be some sweetness out there. If only we are brave enough to explore, and to keep going until we find it.