It was August 3rd, 2019, and my kitchen had become a steam bath. The AC unit had died sometime around noon—right when I’d promised twelve sweating relatives a ‘refreshing’ National Watermelon Day spread. I stood there in a puddle of my own making, holding a dull chef’s knife that was more butter-spreader than blade, watching the first watermelon I’d cut collapse into a pink slush puddle on the cutting board. The smell of overripe fruit mixed with the ozone scent of the storm rolling in through the screen door burned my nostrils. That’s when I learned that watermelon waits for … Find out more