Neighbor Marla, on her ATV, delivered just-picked cucumbers to us. Daughter Kate’s eyes lit up, and John almost drooled. Mere hours later we served them at the table. Kate, commensurate with her size, savored the ones on her plate.

I wondered if John’s eyes were bigger than his stomach. He pigged out on the green, crunchy things. The rest of us were more restrained, though our appreciation was right there. Many thanks, Marla.

I have a photo to show what was left of two cardamom/almond coffeecakes. Friend Karen shared a container of cardamom with us when we were in New York recently, and that was what flavored our breakfast bread. I first tasted cardamom at John’s family gatherings. His mother was of Norwegian heritage and always baked Christmas cookies with cardamom. It was love at first taste for me. We love it so much, that we have it occasionally throughout the year. Everyone loved the coffeecake. Thank you very much, Karen.

We all knew the watermelon was in trouble. I was waiting for the melon lovers to ask for it and cut it, because I avoid all but the smallest pieces. Nathaniel found a small puddle under it. We cleaned it up and put it on a plate. That did nothing to turn back the clock.   The melon sat there slowly spewing at us. Nathaniel agreed to cut it to humor me, because he was sure it was inedible. He began making a cut in the middle and suddenly THWUNCK! With a rather low tone the melon split itself in half. Startled, Nathaniel jumped back, out of firing range. Kate’s mother-instinct kicked in. She rushed to make sure her 6’5” baby was safe. We stared at the melon and began to laugh. Nathaniel, with a newly-minted food handler’s certificate, wanted no part of it. I cut a little chunk to taste and said it was watermelon wine. Kate agreed to a bite, and we both backed away from it.

How would we dispose of three-dimensional watermelon wine? If neighbor Shawn and Bob had been home, I might have asked if they wanted the melon for their chickens. I thought of their coming home to find the girls drunkenly staggering about the enclosure and knew I wouldn’t even offer. It was too heavy for plastic garbage bags. I suggested Nathaniel toss the halves over the fence into the empty pasture, now full of waist-high weeds. The horses have been gone for weeks. Hours later I had other dire thoughts. What if the pasture owner mows the field and hits the time bomb melon? What if melon vines spring up there next year to proclaim what I authorized? Golly Pete! I am dreading the consequences, both now and later. Who knew you could get in such trouble with a rotten watermelon?