First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Alex Siklos
There’s nothing more disappointing than a garbage watermelon.
I hold my breath a little every time I slice into a new one. If the inside is not pink enough, it has no flavour. If it’s too pink, it’s overripe and squishy. And then you have this giant ball of pink water that only the flies want to feast on.
But when it’s just right, it’s a marvel. It’s the perfect mix of cold and sweet and crunch. It’s the feeling I get when I’m listening to waves on the beach, when that Aperol spritz with giant ice cubes lands in front of me on a patio with a view, when I get a taste of nocciola gelato after months of winter.
It breathes summer. Nevermind the sticky fingers and tiny beads of sweet pink bliss dribbling down your chin. It’s the thing you waited for your parents to cut into on picnics in random parks and beaches while the charcoal barbecue cooled off. In the old days, someone would haul it out of a multiple-layered plastic bag or the kind of cooler it took two men to carry, one handle on each side. Then there were the consultations on where exactly to cut into the mammoth sphere.
I don’t remember the round ones as a kid – only watermelons that were long and oval and full of black seeds. Someone somewhere would ask if the knife you brought was big enough. You’d sink the knife in. It would get stuck. You couldn’t pull it out. You couldn’t sink it in. So you’d call in your assistants to make sure nothing fell off the picnic table and you’d roll the melon slightly, sink the knife again and then you’d hear it – that extended crack – like a long-locked hinge finally broken open. And when that treasured slice landed in your hand, you’d bend your body into a perfect arch to keep that watermelon juice from raining down on you.
Buying misfit fruits and vegetables can help reduce your grocery bill. Here’s what some services offer
I’m not sure why I’m suddenly obsessed with watermelon. They’re heavy, awkward and huge. Honeydews seem like a better gamble. I can check it for soft spots and head off to the register and pay. They’re almost always sweet, almost always reliable and don’t require serious biceps to carry home.
But here I am, hauling 12-pound watermelons up to my condo since they first showed up in grocery stores in May. Every week, I flip through my flyer app to see where watermelon is on sale. I go to the grocery store with a sturdy extra-large reusable bag. I lay my eyes on those melons, looking for a yellow spot that the internet tells me is supposed to signify it ripened on the ground as nature intended. I look for roundness, no soft spots and a dull rind. Then I engage in the obligatory tap even though I don’t really know the difference between the hollow sound that means a ripe melon and the dull thud that means I’m about to lug a tasteless boulder into my home.
I could pick up the mini watermelons instead. They’re small, cute and far more manageable but there’s no “there” there. It’s all rind, no goodness and no hassle. And maybe that’s part of it. The hassle of getting the watermelon home, wrestling it to the counter and cracking it open makes it that much sweeter.
It’s time to buy a new fridge, and the search seems endless
I thought the fascination would wear off. Turns out once you feed the craving, the craving continues. I’ve bought a watermelon a week and not one slice has gone to waste. I’ve been known to eat almost half in one sitting. I’m pretty sensitive to cold things but I keep eating it cold out of the fridge to the point where I have to put on sweaters and pants to counteract the watermelon chill.
On the positive side, I imagine I’m the most hydrated I’ve ever been, or so say the frequent trips to the washroom. The internet tells me too much watermelon can lead to bloating, gas and turning orange. I’ll watch for a new hue but so far, I haven’t turned the colour of spray tan.
They say sometimes you eat your feelings. Maybe all that watermelon is me packing away the feeling I want to have in the dead of our grey cold winters. Maybe enough watermelon now means I can breathe summer year round.
Beatrice Politi lives in Toronto.
