The Great Watermelon Debate

Saturday, June 5, 1976

Annual Forza Family Reunion, Cavalier Park

“Did anyone bring salt?” As I stepped away from the buffet line, I scanned the picnic tables for a white shaker among the detritus of plates, cups, napkins, and utensils.

“What do you need salt for?” Aunt Nellie studied my dish. When her gaze landed on a scoop of coleslaw, a scowl darkened her features. “I’ll have you know, that’s perfectly seasoned. You should always taste your food before judging it bland. You’re going to ruin it before you even take a bite.”

Dean Martin’s voice faded into static before the radio crackled to life again, this time with Old Blue Eyes crooning “I Did it My Way.” While my aunt’s face reddened at the poor timing, I tried to suppress a grin. “It’s not for the slaw, Aunt Nell. I have no doubt it’s delicious, like it is every year.”

I had to believe I wasn’t lying about that. As far back as I could remember, I’d never eaten coleslaw at a family reunion. Mom had taught us all not to trust mayonnaise in the heat.

Her spine straightened, and her chin jutted higher. “Darn right, it’s delicious. Best recipe in the family.”

Every great aunt felt the same about theirs. I wasn’t even sure I’d taken a scoop of hers. Three different bowls graced the salad section of the food table, and their contents all looked identical.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “So, what do you need the salt for?”

She always gave me the third degree. More than a hundred first and second cousins at the annual family reunion, yet somehow she managed to find and criticize me every year.

Funny thing was, it wasn’t even my dish. When I’d stood to dump my trash, Aunt Peggy asked me to get her a helping of her slaw while I was up. She said it was the one in the red bowl. It was bad enough that I had to wait in line to get it for her, but once I got to the salads, I found all three bowls were red. No way was I giving up my place in line to find out which red bowl was hers. So, I guessed. I mean, how different could each be? Especially considering my great grandmother had passed her coleslaw recipe down to each of her daughters.

I never would have waited so long for seconds, but since I had stood in the line for Aunt Peg, I took the opportunity to grab a wedge of watermelon for myself. Nothing said summer like watermelon.

Well, watermelon and getting a lecture from Aunt Nellie at the family picnic.

I lifted the dish closer to her face, like she couldn’t see what was on it. “The watermelon.”

Now, her eyebrows arched toward her poorly dyed hairline. “Salt on fruit? What’s the matter with you? Are you daft?”

My siblings, cousins, and I had been debating this concept since we were children. Among all the good-natured arguments for and against, I was pretty sure no one had ever been called “daft” before. Lucky me.

Come to think of it, her grandkids were all on the “no salt” side of the topic.

“It’s good, Aunt Nell. You should try it. Brings out the flavor of the fruit.”

“Salt is salty. Fruit is sweet.”

Stop the presses for that breaking news.

I took a deep breath. “Don’t you put salt in your dessert recipes?” If she was using her mother’s recipes, she was. Many of them had already been passed down to me through my mother and grandmother, and every one of them called for salt. “Grandma does.”

“Well, that isn’t fruit, is it?”

“Sometimes it is. Pie, buckle, strudel, muffins—”

“What nonsense your grandmother does is of no consequence to me.”

I glanced at her plate. She had a huge helping of Gram’s peach cobbler on her dish. This time, I allowed myself to grin.

She huffed. “Well, you’ll never catch me doing something so ridiculous. I wonder if your mother knows how you’re ruining your fruit. Someone paid good money for that, and you’re going to waste it.”

I hadn’t lived with my parents since I got married five years earlier. And they’d stopped micromanaging my eating habits long before that. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t care if I salt my watermelon. Or anything else. As long as I don’t waste what I take, no one will mind.” Well, almost no one.

“You kids today.”

I turned twenty-seven two months earlier and was expecting my second child, but I’d always be a “kid” in her eyes—a kid who, apparently, could do nothing right.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” She made a beeline for my mom and dad.

Any other time, I’d have felt bad about my parents getting an earful because of me, but in this case, I was really just glad to get away from her.

Uncle Steve handed me a shaker. “Sorry about that, kiddo. She never lets me salt or pepper anything at home. Thinks she’s Julia Child. News flash—she isn’t.”

I chuckled, shook a few sprinkles onto my watermelon, then handed the bottle back to him. “Thanks.”

He nodded at my plate. “Is that just a weird fad, or is it really better that way?”

“A hundred times better. The salt makes it taste sweeter.”

“That so?” He looked dubious but sprinkled a little on his watermelon slice.

I waved at his plate to encourage him. “Go on. Try it.”

Uncle Steve grabbed it by the dark green rind. After tentatively lifting it to his lips, he took a tiny nibble of the point of the triangle. A huge grin spread across his face, then he took a big bite.

“See?” I smiled. “Good, right?”

“So good!” He turned around, cut in line—something the older generations could get away with that I’d never try, even in my very pregnant condition—and grabbed another piece of watermelon. After salting it, he elbowed me. “You’ll get a kick out of this.”

I kept a healthy distance as he approached my parents, where Aunt Nellie was still lecturing them about me wasting food. Which I wasn’t. And even if I had been, they were in no position to stop me.

Aunt Nellie flung her hands in the air. “I mean, did you ever hear of such a thing? Who in their right mind would ruin fruit like that?”

Dad glanced my way. He looked ready to bolt.

Mom shrugged and played peacemaker, as always. “I don’t know, Aunt Nell. I’m sure you set her straight.”

“I absolutely did not. That girl is as stubborn as a mule. I suppose she comes by it honestly—”

Dad leaned forward to stand.

Mom gripped his arm.

Uncle Steve stepped between them and his wife. “Hey, hon. Have you tried the watermelon? It’s really good this year.”

“I had been about to, but I caught Regina ruining hers. When she wouldn’t listen to reason, I came to talk to Cathy and Tom about it.”

“What are they going to do? Regina’s married and has family of her own.”

“She should still respect her elders. And since she ignored me, I thought her parents might hold more sway over her.”

The fact that my shortcoming this year was over the ridiculous topic of salted fruit would have been laughable… if it wasn’t so annoying that my aunt had to find something about me to criticize.

Uncle Steve shoved a piece of watermelon toward her. “Leave them alone, Nell. Lead by example. Show Regina how enjoyable the fruit is in its natural state.”

“Good idea.” She marched over to me with her arm outstretched, watermelon juice trailing from her fingers. When she neared, she took a big bite. “See, Regina? This is how you should…” Aunt Nellie stopped and stared at the wedge in her hand. Then she looked at my uncle. “Steve, did you taste this?”

“I did.”

“It’s delicious. Do you know who brought it? We need to find out where this is from. I knew the grocer was wrong when he told me they had the best produce at his market. This is a hundred times better…” Her voice trailed off as she stalked toward the buffet.

Uncle Steve winked at me before following her.

I burst out laughing. My husband and I brought the watermelon. And we got it from the same store she frequented. It was so tempting to tell her the salt made all the difference, but my back hurt, and I was anxious to get back to my table. Without knowing it, Aunt Nellie had answered the decades’ long debate for us, and I was going to make darn sure my cousins knew it.

Saturday, June 4, 2022

Annual Forza Family Reunion, Cavalier Park

I watched my granddaughter struggle to stand from the picnic table. Her ankles were swollen, and she held her back. When she overcorrected her balance to accommodate her protruding belly, her husband grabbed her arms to steady her. She awkwardly bent to give him a kiss of thanks.

He pressed his lips to her belly then smiled up at her. “Just sit, hun. I’ll get whatever you want.”

“I’m so hot.” She carefully lowered herself back to the bench. “Grab me a glass of lemonade and some watermelon.”

“You got it.”

“And sprinkle salt on it.”

He stopped mid-stride to look back at her. “Another craving?”

“No. You have to salt watermelon.”

He wrinkled his nose.

My grandson shook his head. “How have you two been together so long without this coming up?” He looked up at his brother-in-law. “Salt it. Always.”

Their cousins chimed in from across the table, some in favor of the practice, others against.

Aunt Nell and Uncle Steve, along with all of their generation and most of the next, had long since passed away. I hadn’t been criticized at the annual picnic in over a decade. Many of my cousins had moved far from home and no longer returned for the family reunion. The buffet table still had a lot of family recipes on it, but it also held vegan, gluten-free, and lactose-free options.

So much had changed over the years. But the Great Watermelon Debate raged on.

And even though my aunt had proved me right, I was glad this particular tradition continued. It wouldn’t be summer without the Forza family’s salt argument.

I sprinkled my watermelon with a few granules—some gourmet pink variety from the Himalayas—and smiled.