Walking past the Sussex International Grocers earlier today I spotted a crate of fabulous looking melons. Like a cross between honeydew and cantaloupe, only bigger, they sat on display, cushioned by regally purple tissue paper, labelled ‘Iranian melons’. Although huge, at £5.50 a pop I almost balked, if not for the beautiful sunshine and imploring excitedness of my eldest daughter and goddaughter. Armed with the cash they carefully carried their prize (between them…) up to the till like kids in a sweetshop. Then, melon balanced on the top of the pushchair, we ambled home, sat in the garden and ate it cut into slices, the juice dribbling down our chins. It’s flesh was the colour of pale straw and crisp like an asian pear. And it was one of the best things I’ve eaten of late – aside from the bowl of cherries we had this evening, straight from the fridge, in the last of the sunshine, over a game of backgammon, proving that time, place and company has an immeasureable influence on the pleasure we derive from our food.
And they are, like Alphonso mangoes, unique in time and place.
