Art of the Thump

This morning I took my granddaughter to the Curb Market, something we do just often enough for her to remember that there's a lady there who always gives her a free treat (today it was an apple). It's a fun way to spend some time on a Saturday morning, and you just can't get better fresh produce at a fairer price anywhere else. It's a real "come as you are" place, as most folks spend time there early, before a day at the lake or out gardening, and certainly before hair fixin' and make-up become important.

I like for Rosemary to see the people behind the food we bring home, and I want her to grow up knowing that folks from every background you can imagine are good people who enjoy visiting together, that when it comes to admiring and selecting good tomatoes and pretty squash we are all alike. 

We were selecting our watermelon by the  traditional "thumping" method when a woman standing next to us said, "My father always did that - what does it mean?"

I am most assuredly not the person you want as your tour guide through the culinary world, but as much as I try not to be judgmental I could not help but wonder who in the world RAISED this woman, that she wouldn't know this. 

What I did instead was try to explain what a person listens for when thumping a melon, but it's sort of like describing a color or a fragrance. What you're listening for is that sound that the best watermelon you ever had when you were 3 years old made, the one you helped your Grandmama thump at a roadside stand and heard her say, "Perfect!" and then you went home and had it and all its sticky glory outside in her back yard when it was too hot to do anything but eat watermelon. LIKE THAT.

At least that's the way I see it.