Cantaloupe

I haven’t written lately for a few reasons. First of all, my life is so mundane right now that it practically bores me to tears just to think about it, much less write about it. And secondly, I feel more and more like some sort of primal mammal that just wants to flee from the herd and gestate in peace and isolation.

Yes, I am still nauseated. No, I don’t want to discuss it. There is really nothing else to say. The only way out of this is through.

I remember one day in January, probably after I’d thrown up about 7 times before 1 in the afternoon, suddenly all I could think about was the kitchen at the field station in Nicaragua. How it was always warm and full of activity and how after a long and exhausting day of walking through the forest, I would go in there to slice up fruit to take out with me the next day. The women who worked in the kitchen quickly caught on to how much I loved cantaloupe, or “melón” as it was called in Spanish. On at least one occasion, Doña Argentina saved a melón for me if we were running low—hiding it away from the usual assortment of fruits that they used to make snacks or smoothies for the tourists. Even in my current state of nausea, I could see myself standing there, slicing up melón at the rustic counter, packing as much of it as would fit into my Tupperware container, and putting it in the refrigerator to take out to the forest with me the next morning. Melón was the perfect thing to eat during the dry season. It was cool and refreshing and hydrated me better than water for some reason. The only drawback was that when the temperature soared into the 90’s by 8am, it didn’t take long for the melón to get warm and mushy and rather unappealing. Usually it didn’t matter though. By that point I’d been up for a good 4 hours and would have just about eaten my whole stash—which made for many long, hot, hungry hours until dinner that evening.

I remembered all these things and thought… if I could just be in Nicaragua again, where it was warm all the time and there was always cantaloupe. Maybe Leda or Reina or Doña Argentina would take care of me and even if I didn’t feel better, at least I wouldn’t feel so cold or be so alone all the time. When I finally roused myself to go to the grocery store, I remember walking through the aisles with my arm over my nose and mouth (to lessen the smell of food) and with my head down, because even the sight of most foods would send the contents of my stomach to the back of my throat. In the produce section, there was a small display of cantaloupe. It was ridiculously out of season and overpriced. I stood there for a long time contemplating whether I should get one or not, and finally I did. When I came home, I sliced it open. The rind was thick. The flesh was almost white. When I ate a bite of it, it was hard and tasted like fertilizer and pesticides. I felt like crying. I said to Fig, just hold on. Just hold on until the summer when it is warm and there will be cantaloupe and it will be delicious and we won’t feel sick anymore and we will be able to eat it then.

We’ve made it thus far. There is cantaloupe in the grocery stores again, and even though it’s still not in season here, it is good. They have this kind at Meijer right now called Honey Rock; they are huge melons, so sweet and good. When I first brought one home and tried it, I almost cried it was so good. I have to ration myself or I could seriously eat an entire melon in one sitting (or just while I’m standing at the counter slicing it up). I’ve been waiting for this since January. With the warm weather and cantaloupes available, it’s still not necessarily easy, but it definitely helps. I suppose eventually even cantaloupe will make me feel sick—the general pattern seems to be that I’ll find one thing that tastes good for a while but at some point I won’t be able to eat it, smell it, or even think about it again. So I figure out something else and move onto the next thing.

Less than 3 months to go.