Battlefield

I do apologize for my long absence. But I have returned, and hopefully you will all find me as eloquent (or not) and befuddling as ever.

Today, my mother had a colonoscopy. I can't even begin to comprehend the pain that that procedure entails, especially as it involves getting a camera shoved up one's ***** and FASTING for 24 hours before the procedure. That's right. NOT EATING. I don't think I could have survived.

Of course, being the obedient daughter I am, I decided to do something nice for her. Knowing that she'd probably be starving once she stumbled home, I cast around for something I could prep for her. Note the word "prep," because my skill with a frying pan extends to crumbly scrambled eggs and warming up precooked ham (warming up because I'm too scared to leave the stuff on the stove for too long out of fear that it will burn). I spotted the watermelon.

No challenge, right? It's a freakin' producer, after all, and hawks are at least tertiary consumers. I was above it in both stature and metaphysical presence in the food chain.

But I was wise. I did not plunge into the fray with butcher knife a-swinging (though in the end, a similar scene did ensue). I googled "how to cut a watermelon." I kid you not. There is no such thing as an adversary you should face unprepared, and even a swollen plant ovary detached from its mother is no different.

The directions said to cut off the ends and then slice the watermelon into quarters lengthwise. With this plan of action, I pulled the skinny, serrated fruit blade out of the knife block and marched off to battle with the misplaced confidence of Napoleon heading into Russia wearing nothing but long johns and a wifebeater.

I had forgotten the watermelon, which was sitting happily on the ground outside the kitchen. I sheepishly replaced the knife, then swung the watermelon up into my arms like it was my loving mistress. I balanced it awkwardly on the dividing section of the sink, then tried to give it a quick rinse. Unfortunately, when I tried to swing the faucet head to the other side of the watermelon, the melon was too fat for it to cross. That was only the beginning of my problems.

As the process continued, I realized how woefully unprepared I was for this undertaking. As I cradled the now-damp melon in my left arm and reached for the cutting board with my right, my side started to cramp up. The heavier the melon is, the more water it contains, and the more delicious it will be. Well, my mother had watermelon-picking down to a science. Whenever I went with her to our local Costco, I would stand by on the sidelines in amazement as she knocked out some strange Aboriginal rhythm on the watermelons, intervening only to crawl to the top of the stack of boxes to pull down the one melon she just HAD to get. Digression aside, this melon must have been ambrosia in a striped jacket because it was HEAVY.

As I plunged the knife into the body of my victim, the straight cuts I had envisioned in my head and planned to replicate in reality became jagged, drippy edges. Frustrated, I finally settled for pulling the watermelon apart with my hands. Now I had two halves of watermelon, and I set aside half for later. Easier said than done. Our crowded countertop provided me only a narrow avenue to work with, and the half I set aside teetered precariously in a basin I had put it in to catch drippage. I was sure it was going to fall over any second. And it almost did, but I put my arm out--and the knife fell to the floor, bouncing around joyfullywhile I executed a rather sloppy rendition of St. Vitus' Dance and prayed that a visit to the hospital was nowhere in my future.

But the hard part was over, and all that remained was for me to slice up the now-manageable pieces. Tupperware after tupperware was filled with chunks of the watermelon's carcass and marched off to the fridge to cool. The microwave and my brother's MuscleTech water bottle, which were unfortunate enough to be in the splash zone, were bathed in the juice of my hack-and-slash job.

Finally, finally, it was done. The sliced up half of the watermelon that I had finished occupied the entire top shelf of the fridge, and the half that remained in its plastic basin was removed from its precarious perch (you could almost hear its sigh of relief) to rest on the shelf beneath. But I observed the kitchen. Juice drippings from my pilgrimages back and forth from the refrigerator had left a trail of fructose that would send an extended family of ants into paroxysms of glee.

I knew that cleaning the floor was my brother's chore, and I was sorely tempted to leave it all to him. But not only was stepping on the tacky surface disgusting, but the filial obedience that had gotten me into this entire mess (and fear of my mother's wrath if she happened to wake up in time) kicked in again. I sighed and reached for the rag.

P.S. If you could figure out what the stars stood for, you're amazing because I sure as heck have no clue.