The pre-sorted time after a semi-successful blueberry picking. Photo by Mark A. Brown
“Melon d’eau,” said the North African gent who sold produce at our French market. Melon of water. His watermelons were great, fat and snake green. We selected one from the mass of globes. He lifted it with both hands and the bottom fell out of it, as if John Gotti had taken a ball bat to it. Water, then melon, and then more water simply broke. The asphalt echoed the splatter beautifully, and the air soon reeled from the funk of rotten fruit. “That’s why they call it melon d’eau!” said our man.