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I don’t know how to pick out a good melon. It has something to do with scent—a sweetness and musk. The melon should feel heavier than it looks. There’s a trick with the stem end, I think. Press it and there should be a certain amount of yield— a give that indicates the perfect ripeness. This is guesswork for me. I’m gambling whenever I open a melon and taste it for the first time. I'm disappointed far more often than pleased. But the bitter and too-firm bites are worth the eventual glory of an immaculate fruit. And there is arrogance, too. I deserve to bring goodness home. Don’t you? We set the fruit on our plates and wonder if it hides a secret name. Does it have a mother and father? We stare into its creation. It glistens. We drop our forks and eat the orange orb with our bare hands. To be human is to know this kind of feast— to know the urge to devour the rind. To consume is to possess. To possess all of it, we must travel the universe. With sugar in our teeth, we expand and expand. Alone at our kitchen tables, we become interstellar gods swallowing small planets.
Occasionally I helped my north Florida former in-laws harvesting cants & watermelons. Mr. Watson always cut the vines himself, even when his 2 sons were of age & knew what to do. When they took over, they paid for outsiders to glean the fields & they pretty much took whatever "looked ready." They hauled them off in big flatbeds, while Mr. Watson sold to individuals who drove up in small trucks--paid in cash--stacking the melons was crucial. Hot, humid memories.
One of my jobs in HS was working at a high end grocery store. It was a pretty miserable gig except for the head produce guy. He ability to select just the right piece of fruit out of the batch bordered on the mystical. Thinking about it now 30+ years later, I can still smell the "good" grapefruit.