Watermelons

I consider my mom an expert when it comes to shopping for vegetables and fruits. She knows instinctively which tomatoes are sweetest, which mushrooms are fresh, and even which peas to pick. Over the course of countless trips to the marketplace, I have managed to collect some tips--tips that concern everything from the ripeness of wax apples and mangoes to the benefits of yellow kiwis . Papayas should be long rather than wide (those wider in girth tend to be hollow), and heads of cabbage should be springy rather than solid to ensure flavor and juiciness. Yet, such tidbits of knowledge are just that--tidbits, and this infinitely useful art form never ceases to bewilder me.

As it bewilders my dad. He is not so accomplished in the arts of grocery shopping--his area of expertise lies in physics, and in explaining things like gravity and rainbows in unnecessarily complex terms. But lately, he's begun to dabble in this other field of science, and he's been improving at a startling rate. My dad is now solely responsible for buying the guavas in our refrigerator. Not to mention the fact that he's also gained a considerable amount of confidence in his choice of watermelons.

Over the months, my two parents have formed dangerously different views on how to pick watermelons.

According to my dad, when picking a watermelon, one must vigorously tap the melon in question, and then listen intently for several seconds afterwards, measuring the frequency of the reverberations beneath the mottled green rind. To demonstrate his theory, my dad once tapped a "good" watermelon and a "bad" watermelon. Although my dim ears could detect little difference ("slap, slap" versus "slap, slap"), my dad assured me that the first sound was much "juicier" and "sweeter." (I let it go. He might have momentarily confused his sound and taste adjectives, but he really sounded like he knew what he was doing. I also didn't want him pressing his ear against the watermelons--with unusual tenderness I might add--any longer than absolutely necessary. What if we were seen?)

So when we went to RT Mart last week and stumbled upon the crate of watermelons in the aisle beside the pineapples, it went something like this:

"Look! Watermelons!" (That was me. I tend to state the obvious.)

"Here! I'll choose one!"

My dad made his way to the crate and proceeded to tap every watermelon in sight. The rest of the family winced. What if one of the watermelons exploded without warning? What if someone we knew was lurking in an aisle nearby?

"No, no, that's not how you do it. Here's a good one." No doubt thinking the same things I did, my mom quickly brushed him aside and, summoning her magical powers, pointed to another one. Of course, my dad then began to tap that one, and the echoes apparently told him something else.

"No. This one doesn't sound sweet enough."

"That one." This time, the watermelon my mom pointed to was beneath four or five other watermelons, but such an awkward position did nothing to deter my tireless father. Cramming his hand into the tangle of melons, he finally managed to tap the target. We waited in suspense.

"All right! This one it is then!"

Thus began a five minute struggle to move the other watermelons out of the way so we could place the chosen one into our cart. Emphatic gesturing and serious discussion of logistics was involved, and I am sure the people who happened to wander past aisle nine were shocked by the aggressiveness of our attack and the number of watermelons we balanced in our arms. But what may have seemed like chaotic juggling to others was somehow comforting to me. As we wrestled and heaved, chattered and grunted, I couldn't help but smile to the melon I happened to be cradling.

After ten years' worth of squabbles over toothbrush mix-ups and whose turn it is to wash the dishes, we're still moving watermelons together.