Nosh Posh

It was the maniacal giggling emanating from behind a mound of bananas that captured my attention. The source of the laughter came in to view as I rounded the banana cart.

Crouched in front of a shelf cut into the side of the banana cart was my boyfriend. On the shelf before him were a variety of melons that could easily have been the brainchild of Dr. Seuss himself. Both of Boyfriend’s hands rested on a melon. I watched as he squeezed each melon with an alternating rhythm, his vaudevillian giggling increasing with each squeeze.

“They’re like Nerf melons,” said Boyfriend. “Very squeezable. Squeezy. Squeeeeeeezy.”

It was then that someone’s blue-haired granny turned into our grocery aisle and took in the scene before her. I watched her face darken in an obviously disapproving scowl.

Both the moment and old blue haired begged for a sarcastic comment- the gods nearly had nearly decreed it so.

“Stop molesting the melons. You’re making my breasts jealous,” I quipped.

Out of my peripheral vision I saw granny’s mouth drop and her face turn ashy with shock.  She gripped the shopping cart handle till her knuckles whitened. With a huff and a push to her cart, she fled the scene.

“That wasn’t nice,” exclaimed Boyfriend, still crouching, his head turning to watch granny’s escape.

“You’re the one groping the produce,” I retorted.

“Yeah,” he said with a slow pause. “I am.”

I watched Boyfriend bring one hand to his knee. With his other hand he gripped a yellow and green stripped “Nerf” melon tighter. He pushed himself up and with a graceful swoop of his arm, brought the melon to rest directly in front of my face.

“We’re getting a Nerf melon.”

“What kind of melon is it?” I inquired.

Boyfriend turned the melon round in his hands till he found the label.

“It says Casaba.”

“And what are you going to do with the Nerf melon?”

Boyfriend wrinkled his nose. An expression I’ve come to know as “what an asinine question” graced his face.

“Eat it,” he replied then stalked off towards the cashier.

Thirty minutes later we were positioned side by side, laptops open, scouring the web for Casaba melon recipes.

“Watermelon salad, cantaloupe salad, honeydew salad. You know, I just don’t like salad that much.”

Boyfriend laughed. “Yes you do you just don’t like melon that much.”

“Touché,” I replied with a tilt of the head.

Boyfriend reached out and grabbed the melon. He twirled the melon in his hands and began tossing it in the air like it was a football.

“Barbequed casaba?” he asked.

Now my own faced darkened with the ‘what an asinine question’ look. It was a question only a desperate foodie with a shot memory would’ve asked.

“We’re out of propane,” I replied.

“What about the prosciutto?”

“The last of it went on our pizzas last night.” I turned from my laptop to face him. “It’s a hundred and eight degrees outside.* Are you really thinking of cooking?”

Ignoring my comment he stood, melon in hand and walked to the fridge.

“Forget the fridge,” I said. “Get the rum. And not the Bacardi. Get the Leblon”

Grinning, he grabbed the bottle of Leblon rum from the liquor cabinet. He soon made short work of the melon and quickly deposited it’s pale lime-colored flesh in a blender with ice and a fair amount of rum. He sugar rimmed two highball glasses. The frozen rum and Casaba made sloping noises as it filled each glass.

“Dinner is served,” he proclaimed. I noticed his glass was already half drained as he set my own high ball in front of me.

“Kudos to the chef, in all his melon molesting glory,” I said as I raised my glass and put the glass to my lips.

A self-satisfied look and wicked smile came to his face. “Not as good as your melons. But satisfying nonetheless,” said Boyfriend.

I sputtered, showering the table with frozen rum and melon.

“I see you agree,” said Boyfriend.

And to that, I have no comment.

*Yes, it was 108 degrees farenheit outside. I was visiting Boyfriend who currently lives in a place Buck Owens once called home and is in So. Cal.