Watermelon

I bought my first watermelon of the season this morning. They've been in season for some time, but I just wasn't in the mood. Watermelon wasn't created to be eaten on cloudy days. And that is France for you this summer. A sunny day here and there. Like this morning. So I thought it is summer. And bought a watermelon.
I stared a long time at this cute little round fruit on my table. How very elegant, I thought, very chic and small enough to carry in my basket. It can even fit into my fridge. I could even have chosen a yellow one and one without seeds....a watermelon without seeds! What has civilation done to us?
Let me tell you a little about those I grew up with. I run the risk of being tagged as a tough, sturdy amazon after this, but that's OK, you might be thinking that already!
I love a huge long, oval watermelon, big and lush in its greenness. Too big for the basket or under the arm. Too big for the fridge. And too big for a dainty lady like me too carry. You need a strong quarterback. You scratch it, you knock it with that knuckle, move on to the next one, scratch it, knock it, nod your head and Mr Qurterback lifts it onto his shoulder.
This prize is taken home and wrapped in a cold, wet cloth, stored in the coolest corner of the garden, often splashed with cold water to keep it cool.
Then, there's a time and place to eat a watermelon. It is not eaten as an amuse bouche at a candle lit dinner table with a drizzle of balsamic, or cocktail picked on a pretty platter or served on a bed of mesclun with fancy feta cheese or graniteed, a la mediterannean!It is eaten on a buzzing hot, late summers afternoon, cut up by Mr Quarterback right there on the lawn, into proper oblong watermelon slices, crackling broken off so that the luscious "crown" is displayed, the creme de la creme, and a sigh escapes from all onlookers, eager awaiting their slice. You then dig into your share with bare feet and hands and gusto. Finesse and manners have no place in eating a watermelon. With your slice, you plonk down on the grass and chainsaw through it, with your knees almost draped around your ears, making room for the dripping juices and seeds. Every so often you'll shake those hands to prevent the juices from running into your armpits and you'll spit those seeds gathered in your cheeks olympic distances.
That's how a watermelon asks to be eaten. The only knife in sight will be the panga for slicing it up and a small knife for Aunt Posh, who doesn't want to dig her freshly coiffed hair into a slice.
Then of course comes the smearing and peel-attacking and seed fights and the pool and the throw-ins....
But unfortunately, I'm miles away from that kind of watermelon. So, here is mine from this morning... decently small, round and chic, calm and quiet.... and the clouds just moved in front of the sun.
Watercolor on Fabriano CP.