Watermelon is in my blood. Still, after all these years, it’s my favorite food. There are other foods, exotic — and cuisines and culinary experiences — but nothing compares to the pure delice of watermelon.
Her texture: exquisite crunch, voluptuous softness, like the finest crushed ice warmed to a perfect temperature ice never could sustain.
Her taste: sweet, but never too sweet – always a revelation.
Even as a child – in the picture above – I had already learned the art of saving one bite of the deep, sweet heart of the watermelon for the encore.
Once upon a time, my grandmother taught me to hold the barbed-wire fence for her, and then she for me, so we could crawl into the watermelon field across the way and take this orb of pure pleasure home – while the field hands watched and shook their heads.
Looking back I think my grandmother was hardly old at that time. Certainly no older than I am now.
Once upon a time I heard my father say that someone should bottle watermelon juice. I heard the wonder in his voice at what a marvel of life this juice is, and what an equal marvel that the world at large could be unaware of its magnificence.
Watermelon is in my blood.