I trudged through the rain on Monday, armed with my impossibly long grocery list and a large coffee, ready to begin the marathon* that is grocery shopping for five people, already grumpy because it was pissing rain and, having just returned from my Mother's Day Weekend with S at the W Hotel, I was wondering where were all the beautiful gay men to offer to push my cart and perhaps get me a bottle of water**. And there you were, shining, despite a thin coat of dirt, like a beacon of hope for the summer to come. Memorial Day is next weekend, so your appearance should not have been such a surprise, but with an audible gasp, I snatched you up and put you in my cart. And here's where I start to fall out of love with you, Watermelon.
The initial joy I felt upon seeing you, imagining tupperwares full of your flesh being devoured, poolside, by my children, begins to fade as I heave your fat ass from the display. My palms and chest are now smeared with gritty mud, the soil from your underbelly having mixed nicely with the rainwater all over my jacket. Now where to put you? They have yet to invent a drops-side grocery cart, and while I am tall enough to drop you into the main compartment of my rig, heaving you back out as you roll around its depths at checkout might result in a back injury. Mercifully, I was alone, otherwise you'd be riding shotgun in the car-cart, or petri dish, as like to call it, that Little Man prefers. So under the cart you go, as the grate down there will prevent any rolling. Or so I think. Taking a corner too fast out of produce, since I have exactly seventy minutes to shop, checkout, get home and put away enough food for an army (an army fueled by Go-gurts and bananas), you dive-bomb out of the cart and skid into the liquor department. Perhaps you were reminding me to buy wine.
After heaving you back into the cart, the rest of the trip goes well, if not a bit slower, as your heft and precarious position makes turning the cart much harder. At checkout, I get the bright idea to take your sticker off so the elderly female cashier who always comments on how much milk I buy, can scan you without my having to lift you yet again. No dice. The bar code on your sticker is defective, forcing me to plop you on the conveyor belt and watch you back roll, fighting any forward progression toward the scanner, where The Milk Police will sigh dramatically as she has to move you from the scale to the counter. Then I get to wrestle you back under the cart, from which you will escape again, almost causing an accident, as I push the cart along the downward slope of the parking lot.
During the car ride home, you will roll about the main compartment of the van, crushing empty juice boxes and the bread I have just bought. No matter how securely I pin you between twelve packs of soda, you manage to free yourself. I have tried every location in the van. Between the seats, on the seats, in LM car seat, and you always wind up on top of the Reduced Fat Lays. True, I could put you in the trunk, but that is full with two strollers and bag of clothes I've been meaning to donate.
Finally, we arrive home and I get you into the kitchen, where the floor is now covered in the same sludge I am. Now it's bath time, as I dump your rotundness into the kitchen sink to prevent this filth from getting all over everything when I cut you up. Getting you back out of the sink is a comedy of errors, since I am either faced with the "greased pig" scenario trying to lift you out wet, or the "baby melon" swaddling you with kitchen towels I will immediately have to launder since, they too, will become muddy. Note to watermelon farmers, I know you think the dirt is kitschy, and proof these are really, genuine watermelons, but I believe you already. A squirt with the hose after harvesting would go a long way.
Now comes the butchering. Placing you on a cutting board, you teeter perilously, causing me to pray I get out of this with all of my digits intact, since your movement and H's insistence I not ruin any of his good knives butchering melons, means I and stabbing forcefully at a moving object with a dull butcher knife I bought at Bed, Bath & Beyond ten years ago. I get you cracked open down the middle, so at least there is a semi-flat surface to rest you on, and this is where it is either jackpot or bust. After all the work to get to this point, and then see a crack,ed dry center, or a mushy pile of slop is enough to make my scream - but not enough to make me take you back to the store. I've seen people return unsatisfactory produce, but they're usually old and it's pint of blueberries. Am I supposed to throw you in a Hefty bag and drag your carcass to Customer Service to get my six bucks back? My time is worth more than that I think.
Most times, you are nice and ripe though, which means my counters are now a sea of watermelon juice which will eventually drip all over the floor, causing it to be sticky until the dog licks it up or the cleaning lady comes. Usually the former. I spend the next twenty minutes hacking off slices, then cutting the flesh out of those slices into non-choking hazard cubes. At this point your rind becomes an issue. I have two choices, neither of which are good. I can take the bag out of the can to prevent weight-induced ripping, and subsequent cursing and fit-throwing, when I remove the bag after I'm done, or take the bag out and leave it open on the floor to spill its contents each time I drop in a rind, causing the dog to have a joy-seizure as he finds orange peels and chicken bones skittering across the kitchen floor. Six of shitty, half a dozen of crappy if you ask me.
Finally, finally, I am done. I clean up all your juice, rind, and any mud that has escaped the hosedown. I heave the gigantic bag of garbage out the back door and leave it on the deck, instead of taking it down to the garbage cans under the deck, since it's so heavy. H will literally step over it as he goes to walk the dog tonight and Reilly will get his chicken bones anyway when he is let out to do his business in the morning and chews a hole in the bag. This time it comes with a watermelon rind salad. When he chokes to death we are both going to hell.
The kids see the giant tub of melon and gleefully begin to stuff their faces. Do you know, Watermelon, you have a laxative effect? I do, and will get the joy of experiencing it in two hours with Little Man. I eventually cut them all off after they have eaten nearly their body weight in you, and put your container away for tomorrow. That evening I will snag a few pieces and call out to H as I got to bed, "There's watermelon. Stay away from the ice cream!"
Tomorrow dawns, and as I drag my tired ass into the kitchen, and run the hot water to heat up my coffee mug, I notice, in the sink, a container that was too large to fit in the dishwasher, left there by a husband too lazy to wash it. It's your container, watermelon and you are already gone.
This post should make you feel pretty special, Watermelon. You must be some kind of awesome for me to go through this kind of work for roughly twelve hours of enjoyment. And you are. Despite all my bitching, you are the herald of good times to come. You are quite the good time fruit. Nothing un-fun is watermelon flavored - gum, Italian ice, the sherbet in that weird Friendly's "Wattamelon" roll, a certain lemonade and watermelon cocktail H makes - so having you around means fun is right around the corner.
Now if only the pre-cut stuff wasn't as much as my weekly coffee bill.
*Seriously, I can't get it all in one cart.
**The best weekend ever. I called for a cab and when we arrived downstairs, I was informed, by the African American, male concierge with the blue contact lenses and false eyelashes, that not only did he love my hair and my (fake) Tory Burch bag, but that the W's Acura would drive us to our location gratis. If he had handed me a drink I might have thought I had died and gone to heaven.
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