Yesterday we bought our first watermelon of the year and the baby had her first taste. No surprises that she loved it considering my husband is a passionate watermelon eater. It made me remember something I wrote around this time last year when I was 5 months pregnant with her. Here it is:
‘Ah, hai mangiato l’anguria!’ ‘Oh, you’ve eaten a watermelon!’ this is the waitress’s remark at our favourite lunch place in Cagliari when my friend asks her if she notices anything different about me.
I like her analogy. Except that our little one weighs only a fraction of the watermelons that my husband buys from the man opposite, 5 kilos, 7 kilos, the last one- an enormous eleven- 3 times the average birth weight for babies.
And really I’m not eating that much watermelon at all. Growing up in England it was never a childhood ritual the way it was for my husband, a sign of summer coming, like a pale pink moon ripening, and I never long for them, the way he does. Though over the years (nearly 11 of them) I’ve developed a fascination for the way he can eat them, effortlessly, elegantly, eloquently .
In fact the only reason I’m eating watermelon at all is so that the baby will get a taste for it (I am responsible for both English and Italian tastebud development) and so that her father doesn’t make himself sick from eating a whole one (all 11 kilos of it) in 24 hours. Although the wisdom of Google says there’s no harm in doing so, I’ve checked.
And I like it that this summer, we both have watermelon bellies.