Melon-calling, baby

Today was home-grown melon day at The Star. The perfume of garden-ripe melon is almost overpowering, in a wonderful sort of way. As I peeled and sliced, the juice ran down my arms and gushed onto the plates. Good stuff. Good stuff, indeed.

The carnage (it's not pretty) is testament to how near and dear melon is to our Southern or Southern-transplant hearts. It's one of the few food groups in which it's proper to just grab a knife and start hacking and slicing away.

These were some fine melons. Everyone should be so lucky.