Last week-end up in Denver, we took in the Cherry Creek Arts Festival. Strolling up one block and down the next, we came upon a culinary student demonstrating watermelon carving.
So there we are, surrounded by exquisite glass, fiber, ceramics, paintings and the like, and we’re
mesmerized by the art of fruit carving, which is a far cry from the hollowed out watermelon basket filled with melon balls that we’re used to!
Standing there in the hot, hot sun, I ached for a piece of chilled melon.
Summertime is all about watermelon. In this snapshot taken around 1915, a Boy Scout troop on a camp out takes a watermelon break. The boy in the trio at the bottom left, with a quarter of a melon in his face, is my dad.
Watermelon is the best treat when eaten outdoors, even to the Victorians, who were particularly fond of picnics. Perhaps because it gave them a rare opportunity to socialize without all the formality.
Watermelon reminds me of sweltering August evenings, when my dad would bring home a pick-up of watermelons, and every house on the block would empty of kids and parents, all of us waiting our turn to receive a thick slice, which we’d take to the curb, and sitting side by side, arms sticky with melon juice and legs akimbo, spit seeds between our knees and into the street.
The watermelon crop in my area is still a few weeks from coming in. While I wait for “field fresh,” I’m partial to the Pixie because it doesn’t take up half the refrigerator, it’s seedless and tastes as sweet as its name.
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Tie One On…an apron, of course!