Reflections on the Second Week of Fall – The Watermelon Puzzle

Watermelon and Girasoles

Sunday of Labor Day weekend, Spence called across the great room filled with ten Wellses chatting, chuckling, and consuming their last bites of grilled sausages and homegrown pole beans. “Do you want to risk it?” 

I must have missed the beginning of my husband’s sentence. “Risk what?”

“Picking a watermelon. They’re supposed to be ripe when the tendrils and stems turn brown.” Though he couldn’t see the vines from the log house, Spence glanced out the sliding glass door to the south garden. “The tendrils turned brown. The stems are green.”

A puzzle⏤deciding the ripeness of a watermelon. 

If only watermelons would advertise ripeness with hues like purple blueberries and red strawberries do. Our bowling ball sized Blacktail Mountain watermelons display a dark green rind whether unripe, ripe, or over ripe. 

We’d tried several methods.

►Days to maturity. I never resolved if the number of days on the back of the seed package meant from the day Spence planted the seed, the seed sprouted, or he set the seedlings in the garden. Add to that variable weather, and the number of days loses relevance.

►Thumping. Thumps on unripe, ripe, and over ripe watermelons sounded the same to me. Call me thump deaf.

►Yellow spots. Yellow spots on the bottom indicated lack of sunlight not ripeness.

The only year I didn’t puzzle over when to pick watermelons, groundhogs had invaded the garden. They bit into melons exposing red fleshy centers. Ripe. This year, Spence secured the fence excluding the fruit testers. 

Although drenching spring and early summer rains brought mold and slugs killing many plants, twenty-two watermelons survived. I didn’t want to waste even one. 

Squirming around the coffee table and past her aunts’ knees, Addy, our four year old great niece, tilted her face adult-ward, tapped her great uncle’s thigh, and grinned at him. “I’ll pick the watermelon.”

He stooped to Addy’s height. “Your Aunt Janet’s the boss of the watermelons.”

Boss of watermelons? Spence bought the seeds, planted them under grow lights, transplanted the seedlings, and sprayed plants with the fungicide Serenade. I just picked and ate. 

Addy turned to me, clasped her hands, and pleaded with her eyes.

“Sure.” If the watermelon had a white interior, we could compost it. “Pick the one with the brownest stem.”

The watermelon they picked had an olive green stem.

With one hand I balanced the melon on a cutting board, and, with the other hand, I whacked a chopping knife. Thack! The melon split revealing pink flesh.

I handed slices to the gang. Chatter gave way to slurps. The watermelon, not quite ripe, melted on my tongue releasing a mild, sweet flavor. And spitting seeds onto my plate triggered memories of me a few years older than Addy. Mom had handed us children slices of watermelon and shooed us outside. Juice dripped off our chins, and we spit seeds into the grass.

Addy gulped her melon and wiped her face with the back of her hand. Then she tugged on Spence’s shirt sleeve. “I want to take a watermelon home. Can we pick it now?”

Spence frowned out at the garden. “No. The melons aren’t ripe yet.”

Addy’s face darkened. Her shoulders drooped.

“But Aunt Janet can make watermelon popsicles. You can eat one next time you visit.”

Addy jumped on the balls of her feet. Her face brightened. 

Watermelon on Vine

Mine didn’t. Though I would gladly make Addy popsicles, I needed to figure out how to pick ripe melons. Maybe the brown tendrils and stems would work. 

Through the first two weeks of September, no stems browned. One by one, I picked and ate nearly ripe melons. 

Monday, September 16, I spied the first brown stem. With a whoop Addy probably heard more than a hundred miles away in Pittsburgh, I grabbed the melon and rushed inside. 

Whack! Thack! 

The watermelon split releasing a bold fragrance and exposing bright red flesh. But mushy pulp surrounded the black seeds. “Weird,” I said to Spence, who carried a peck basket of tomatoes into the kitchen. “Look.” I held half of the melon up for him to inspect.

“Maybe it isn’t ripe.” He transferred the tomatoes to the table and headed back to the garden.

With a spoon, I scooped the mushy parts into the compost then, after rinsing the spoon, took a bite of the solid flesh. 

Grainy with a hint of fermentation. 

Not ripe.

 Over ripe.

Sheesh. I still needed to make popsicles for Addy.

Grabbing my picking apron, I ran to the watermelon patch. Thirteen watermelons remained⏤eight the size of bowling balls and five the size of softballs. The stems were green, olive, or tawny. Disregarding the colors, I stooped, snatched two of the larger melons, and stuffed them into the pouch of the apron. 

Picking cucumbers at the other end of the garden, Spence belly laughed. “You need a bushel basket.” 

By the time he’d fetched one from the basement, I’d picked and piled all eight of the large melons. The small ones would have to wait.

Back in the kitchen, I fetched the blender and the popsicle recipe then read the ingredient list⏤watermelon, sugar, and lime. Oops. No lime. I could substitute lemon juice. I kept reading. Combine ingredients in a blender . . . Strain mixture to get seeds out.

Watermelon Inside

Duh. Chopping the seeds to bits then straining them out made no sense. I cut the melons⏤some unripe, some ripe, and some over ripe⏤and mashed ripe sections through the mesh of a strainer. After blending the juice, sugar, and lemon juice until the mixture topped itself with a pink froth, I poured the liquid into popsicle forms and shoved them into the freezer.

More watermelons waited on the table. I baked a batch of watermelon muffins. Cleaning sticky juice and black seeds off the table, I licked my lips anticipating a yummy muffin and popsicle treat for dessert.

After supper, I bit into a warm muffin. Dry. As if playing a trombone, I extended my arm to stare at the muffin then brought it close and sniffed. Watermelon fragrance. I took another bite.  Cracker dry. Sheesh. I must have left the muffins in the oven too long. They tasted okay, but I wouldn’t serve dry muffins to family or friends.

I ran warm water over the popsicle form and pulled out a ruby red treat. No danger of having over baked these. I licked. The popsicle tasted like ice. I bit. Still ice. Double sheesh. 

Leaving the popsicle in a bowl, I washed dinner dishes, stared out the window at the sunset, and hoped Addy wouldn’t care about the lack of watermelon flavor. When the rack overflowed with dripping dishes, I reached for the last bowl, the one with the popsicle. It had melted leaving juice. Tipping the bowl to my lips, I sipped.

POW!

Watermelon flavor exploded in my mouth. Maybe I’d misjudged the popsicle because it’d been so cold. I took another bite. Still mostly flavor of ice. But, I knew what to do with the rest of the melons.

The next day, I searched the internet and found a simple recipe for juice⏤blend equal parts watermelon and water. Phooey on diluting the flavor. I would freeze pure watermelon juice. 

Cutting chunks of watermelon, I mashed them through the strainer until my biceps throbbed in protest. Discounting my aching upper arm, freezing watermelon juice proved the easiest way to store watermelons for the winter. Would other people like the juice?

Spence, a diabetic, couldn’t drink it, so I tested the juice on some willing friends.

Last week, Jennifer, owner of Jane Austen Books, raved over the watermelon juice at lunch. “This is amazing!” She ran downstairs to give her daughter a sip before returning with more compliments. “It’s so sweet you could add it to lemon juice for a naturally sweetened lemonade. It would also taste great with a tablespoon of lime juice.”

This week, Tom, our neighbor who drove over to help Spence measure for septic lid extenders and to see our three kittens, accepted a glass of watermelon juice. He took a sip and thumped his glass onto the table.  “I’ve never had watermelon juice before. It’s powerfully good.” He gulped more.

One problem solved. Watermelon juice pleased more than just me so, if Addy didn’t like the tasteless watermelon popsicles, she could drink the juice.

One problem remained. The puzzle detecting ripe watermelons. Brown tendrils and brown stems worked the same as thumps and yellow spots. I’m still groping for a way to identify ripe watermelons, but I’m not desperate enough to open the fence to groundhogs.

Popsicles and Muffins