Everybody knows that cantaloupe is the fleshy step-child of fruit salad. Raspberries and kiwi are the headliners, and cantaloupe, well, it’s the craigslist backup dancer. At least, that’s what I had always believed until I saw some of my students eating cantaloupe sprinkled with bright red powder from a plastic cup. What was this backup fruit doing taking center stage?
“Miss! It’s chile! Try some.”
Heaven. Spicy, salty, sour, sweet TASTE-SPLOSION! “Where...can...I...get...MORE? What is it called?”
“Tajin.”
For a fortnight, if you needed me, you could find me wandering down on the Boulevard, searching for chile powder. Cantaloupe became the central focus of my daily food intake, but I supplemented with Pulparindo candy (a chewy tamarind delight, coated in spicy chile and sour). As you can imagine, an all sugar and citric acid diet is great for your teeth. It gives them a new brittleness and a faint orange glow. At lunchtime, a haze of spice dust settled over the teacher table, and I developed a hacking cough brought on by my constant inhalation of chile particles. As my obsession mounted, I needed more and more powder to satisfy my craving, and if I ran out of magic spicy sprinkles mid-meal, I would shamelessly hunt down students in the hall and beg for more.
“Aye, Miss! You are Mexican now.”
“I just need a taste...just enough to get me through lunch.”
And it was for this reason that I also became a regular at the salad bar of the Brookside Market. You see, they cut the cantaloupe for you. Every day. After the first week, the girl behind the counter and I were on a first name basis, and when she saw me coming, she would get her back-up fruit ready. We had a nice routine going.
“Hey Chantel,” I chirped as I passed by all of the other salad-foods that no longer mattered, making a beeline to my beloved cantaloupe. I vaguely remember seeing somebody in my periphery at the front of the buffet, by the spinach. And I really didn’t consider what I did as “cutting” in the line, because there’s so much acreage between the leafy greens and the fruit section of the salad bar. But on this day, the tongs were crooked, and they just wouldn’t latch on to the cantaloupe. I don’t know how much time passed as I struggled to fill my plastic container, but I distinctly remember saying, “Man, this is going to take forever.” It was at that moment that I felt a smouldering sensation on the side of my skull.
I turned my head ninety degrees to the left and discovered the source. The eyes of a six foot tall, husky black woman glared back at me, melting the skin off my face with a red beam of pure scorn. We regarded each other in brutally awkward silence for about fifteen seconds. Chantel froze behind the counter, gazing past me at some asparagus on the other side of the produce section. It was her only defense. Words failed me.
“I...oh...did you? I’m...oh God. Sorry?” Why was that last part a question? Time froze. Oh sweet Jesus, she’s not saying anything. Still staring. A slight breeze from the refrigerator fan caused the cheerful flowered print of her dress to flutter, and it drew my eye to the hem of her skirt which rested casually atop her cruel, sharp, blood-red cowboy boots. I half expected a tumbleweed to blow between us. Finally, she spoke.
“Are you through?” It was more of a demand than a question.
“Huh? Uh-huh...I...so...excuse...yes.” I was trying to back away with what little dignity I had left, but it wasn’t quick enough for her.
“Get the fuck outta my way,” she grumbled.
I whole-heartedly complied. Chantel exhaled loudly. She had been holding her breath throughout the entire exchange.
I think there are some important lessons here for all of us:
1) Cantaloupe is a gateway fruit. It can lead to honeydew, and in extreme cases, jicama.
2) The salad bar is a lawless outpost of the grocery store where vigilantes will have their justice.
3) Always check your periph. Always.
