14 August 2008
I think it has been safely established that there are few things that I don't really like to eat. Sandwiches are one of them, in case you don't remember. Mayonnaise, obviously. Eggplant--well, unless it's been cooked particularly well, and even then, only if it's one of those nice little varieties that are bred to not have bitterness in their skins (which, incidentally, I did throw in to a pot of quick ratatouille that I make sometimes and they were just fine).** But really, the other thing I don't really care for is watermelon.
Watermelon was always one of those fruits that was everywhere when I was growing up--picnics, friends' houses, potlucks, fruit salads, whatever. And I always ate it, guzzling the cold sticky sweetness until my face was covered in pink sticky juice and the seeds were lying sadly around my feet. I wasn't a very talented spitter. But I found myself liking it less and less, and once I figured out that I wasn't obligated to eat it, I just stopped all together. I mean, summer is full of fresh fruit, and there are SO many more to choose from when they're in season! Peaches, plums, cherries, berries... too bad those are already gone. Seriously, what's better than cherry pie?
NOTHING. NOTHING IS BETTER THAN CHERRY PIE.
So yesterday afternoon, Jeff and I walked over to get our CSA to tide us over until the end of the week (we really should have invested in a larger share), and there, among the lovely peaches and the fragile, fragrant donut peaches, were melons. On the board where it states what you may have, we were told to pick either a watermelon or a cantaloupe. And if there's anything in the fruit department that I dislike more than watermelon, it's got to be cantaloupe.
Melons just don't float my boat. And the only vindication that I have gotten ever on this subject was when I was taking a class on Baroque French literature of the 16th century and we read a poem called "Le melon", which admittedly, I didn't read. (Honestly, I didn't read a bunch of those poems. Sorry, Martine, it wasn't you!) Our professor was talking to us about it, and said that it would be very difficult to appreciate this poem because American melons just don't have the same fragrance or taste as French ones, as the American varieties are undoubtedly inferior. Maybe I would like French melons, if I could obtain one in the middle of summer, when they're nice and ripe, but until the Euro goes down and someone leaves me a substantial fortune, I don't think that's going to happen.
So what do I do with this melon? Thoughts?
**I have to admit, though, that I love to look at eggplants--especially those little adorable ones at the farmer's market! They are so beautiful and purple and striped and charming! I wish I wish I wish that I wanted to eat them more. For cuteness' sake, if nothing else. And because I know it would make me feel like a true functioning adult who eats pretty much everything that's put in front of her.