Here we have my fourth child eating watermelon, a favorite summertime activity at my house. I'll admit, I really like the idea of watermelon. It looks like summer: a big variegated green ball of fruit growing on a squiggly vine. Pick it, manage to lug it out of the garden (or farmer's market), put it into the fridge until it's icy cold, slice it, and tada! The perfect snack for a hot Southern summer day, right? Except I just don't care for the way it tastes. I'm probably the only person on the planet who doesn't like watermelon. I do have fond childhood memories of hanging out at my grandparents' farm in the type of summer heat that only a GRITS (girl raised in the south) can truly appreciate, with all my Williamson cousins (me, and a bunch of boys that included my watermelon-loving brother). The grownups would be on the wraparound porch, we'd be playing under the humongous oak trees that surrounded the house, hoping to catch a little breeze. Somebody would haul a watermelon out of the coolness, slice it, my cousins and brother would go crazy with happiness, assume the watermelon-eating position, and zone out in summertime watermelon ecstasy, the juice rolling down their arms and dripping onto the ground from their elbows. Come to think of it, that's probably why we ate it out in the yard, it was way too messy for the porch. Everybody that is, but me. My watermelon happiness involved making elaborate watermelon teeth - the only time I was trusted with a knife - and attempting to spit the seeds, a talent I never quite developed. Every summer I would try, and every summer I would realize that I still didn't like the taste of the wonderful watermelon. It's my loss, I'm sure.
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