My mother-in-law tells a tale about watermelon. Like any entertaining story hers artfully combines plot, setting and character with a healthy dose of conflict.
The setting is an unassuming Iowa backyard, on a sweltering summer day during some earlier decade. An immigrant grandmother and her young grandson while away the afternoon accompanied by a particularly perfect summer watermelon—just harvested. Heavy as a bowling ball, when bisected the rosy interior drips with sweet, watery juice. The moist fruit might as easily be sucked through a straw as chewed. Faces wet and sugar-kissed, the pair happily eat and eat, well past the point when reason tells them to stop. Neither can resist. Each succulent wedge oozes with hydrating flavor. And in the heat of an Iowa day, what better way could there be to lounge with a loved one?
