By By Stephanie Gittleman
At my best friend’s bris, my potluck assignment was to hollow out and carve a large watermelon into a clever Moses basket shape and fill it with the sweet red fruit. Easy, peasy! Right?
RALPHS: Seeing no watermelons on display, I ask for the produce guy. You’d think I requested an appointment with Ralph himself. First, I’m admonished there are females in the profession too, so the correct term is “Produce Person.” Then they page “Watermelon Walter” on the loudspeaker for ten minutes. Finally, I’m informed he’s taking his lunch break. At 9:30 a.m.? Of course he’s starved for lunch this time of day, they obviously made him skip breakfast. I spy Walter relaxing in the employee breakroom, legs crudely propped up on an oversized watermelon. “Watermelons are out of season. You won’t find a single one this side of SeaWorld,” he has the gall to proclaim, while hogging the last one as a footstool.
TARGET: There isn’t a “Produce Person” to be found here. But an overly helpful customer knocks on melons until I develop a migraine. She thumps each green oval for what seems like hours, sometimes to the tune of Knock, Knock, Knocking on Heaven’s Door” and “Knock on Wood.” I resist the urge to tell a Knock-Knock joke and instead ask if her knuckles are sore? “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” she answers glibly. “Okay, just knock it off! I’ll take this one,” I say, grabbing the last melon she pounds on. At home I cut it open to find complete mush.
SPROUTS: My issue with this store is I fear they’ll change the name of it while I’m still inside shopping. What’s up with their branding identity problem? I still refer to it as “Henry’s” or “Boney’s” and sometimes when I’m feeling frisky, I’ll even call it “Wild Oats.” My next problem (on the day I’m there) is I only see “Personal” watermelons. “Personal” applies to bikini waxes, diaries, and honeymoons, but fruit? I leave all the mini-sized melons to ferment.
TRADER JOE’S: You can always count on TJ’s to have a “1-price fits all” watermelon. None of this weighing it on a scale, using middle-school algebra “Let X=disgruntled shopper” formula nonsense. I chant aloud, “Not too mushy, mealy, mini, messy, meaty, mangy, mucky, or marginal.” A nosy customer calls me “Picky.” I justify myself, explaining it’s for a Moses Basket at a Jewish bris. I elaborate on what happens at a bris. “So you see, this watermelon can’t be too big or too small. Must be just right!” She says, “Well good luck, GoldilocksStein!”
Alone with my phone, I google tips. “A watermelon should feel heavy for its size,” I read. Like there’s gonna be an underweight watermelon that some Yenta needs to fatten up with her kreplach? I finally pick one that has a creamy yellow splotch, certain that I’m triumphant. Alas, at home, it’s flavorless. This is not the watermelon hill I want to die on, so in the trash it goes.
VONS: Only heavily black-seeded watermelons here! Panicking, I consider carving a basket shape out of a banana, but quickly come to my senses.
GELSON’S: Wow. Has it really come to this? This fancy shmancy store intimidates the heck outa me and I feel totally unprepared. Kinda like shoe shopping at Nordstrom without a pedicure. Is there a dress code? Will customers be waltzing in the lavishly wide aisles? Will their free samples on the end caps cost money? Should I tip the “Produce Person? I’m immediately corrected on that term again – this time I’m told they’re called, “Fruit Facilitators.” But the one who helps me goes by, “The Wizard of Watermelon.” Okay, I might’ve made that last part up, but he graciously honors my request to slice one open in front of me. And…it’s perfect!
At the Bris, I proudly set my handiwork down on the buffet table as the hostess saunters over. “Didn’t you read the potluck list? We had two Stephanie’s, so we went by last name initials. Stephanie Wasserman was “W” so she was assigned watermelon. You’re Stephanie Gittleman, so you got Grapes. We also would’ve accepted Gouda cheese or even Gatorade.” Oy!
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