Cantaloupe Convert

In my youth, the stifling days of July and August in Central Texas drove me inside with a mountain of library books. I spent the afternoons lost in fantastic adventures, all with the benefit of central air conditioning.

I rode my bicycle to the library at least twice a week to restock my reading supply—but only in the morning before the heat became unbearable. I think cyclists riding at noon must be utterly mad now that I’m well past fifty.

My parents ran a steam laundry, which had only a few cooling vents to ease the high interior temperatures. I’ve seen my father take off his white work shirts and ring sweat from the fabric at the end of a hard day.

As he aged, heat, humidity, and salt sensitivity conspired to cause his electrolytes to fall out of balance, which led me to discover my favorite summer snack: cold cantaloupe slices.

The family physician advised Daddy to eat cantaloupe after an episode of dehydration because the fruit contains good amounts of potassium. Other than my mother’s love of canned pears and peach cobblers, we weren’t big fruit eaters.

So, I watched with fascination when she cut through the pebbled tan rind of a fresh cantaloupe she brought home from Liverman’s Grocery. It never occurred to me the interior would reveal juicy pulp filled with what looked like a million seeds.

Working with swift efficiency, she sliced the bright orange meat into thick slices that went into a Tupperware container in the refrigerator. Back then, I didn’t understand that my mother possessed a rare superpower; she could unfailingly identify cantaloupe at the peak of their ripeness.

Fair warning. Cantaloupe will break your heart. When it’s ripe and melts in your mouth with an explosion of delicious, sticky juice, the fruit lands just this side of heaven. When it’s not ready, the fruit’s pulpy consistency and bland taste redefines disappointment.

Mama tried to teach me to smell the melons at the round scar left from the picking to judge freshness, a ritual I still practice, but only for show. In the South, women are supposed to be seen smelling cantaloupes in the produce aisle. I have my suspicions that most of those gals are faking it, too.

I buy pre-cut cantaloupe when no one’s looking. Only then can I assess the color and the pool of juice at the bottom of the plastic container. When I get that fruit home, though, I eat the chunks standing over the sink just like my dad used to do. Good cantaloupe has to be messy with lots of dripping.

But my current state of infatuation came on slowly. When Mama finished slicing that first cantaloupe, she offered a piece to me and I said no. The neighborhood children saw watermelon as a summer staple. They always invited me to join in, but I disliked the seeds and the texture of the red wedges, which led me to conclude, with childish logic, that all melons are bad.

The cantaloupe smelled and looked better than watermelon, but I suffered from an ingrained prejudice and would not relent. Every afternoon when Daddy came in from work, I watched him enjoy his end-of-the-day snack and refused to take a bite myself.

Then, at the end of the summer, he bribed me. Eat a piece and we’ll go fishing tomorrow. My father worked hard, and though he always made time to do things with me, a whole afternoon during his peak business season was an offer I couldn’t ignore. I ate the slice—and reached for another.

Leaning against the refrigerator, Daddy fixed me with that lopsided grin of his and said, “Eat up, Shorty. The season’s almost over.”

I stopped mid-bite. “When can we get more?”

“June.”

In those days, grocery stores couldn’t get out-of-season fruit shipped in. For the next eight months, I dreamed about cantaloupe. I think the wait only cemented my ongoing love affair with the melons.

Cantaloupe remains my favorite summer food —refreshing, juicy, sweet—the perfect snack on a hot day. And I never take a bite without feeling my dad standing nearby, grinning at me as I wipe the juice off my chin.