Melon-dramatic, and a little nostalgic

Two weeks ago, I assassinated my first pumpkin. Sure, like every North American kid, I had participated in the carving of many cucurbitaceous victims, but I had never properly hacked one to bits.  With my history of fabulous knife wielding skills, it was a rather daring task to undertake, but it took place with no blood being spilled. That was perhaps the most surprising event of the day.

This was no ordinary pumpkin. It was French, came from Gilbert’s garden, weighed 19kg, and had the least amount of seeds I have ever seen in a beast of that size. Nonetheless, the pumpkin massacre resulted in many, many tasty outcomes.

After savouring a love-seasoned ‘velouté de potimarron’ made by the master velouté chef I share my life with, I also had my first Montreal melon, right here in Reims.

Six months ago, I stood in the backyard of Gilbert’s garden, deep in the Thierache, and looked in front of me, at two distinct garden patches that were a delightful... brown. As we walked along the rows, I noticed small green and white sprouts and was told which vegetable they would eventually correspond to. Toward the end of the patch, there was nothing.

“Il faut les piquer les melons… les melons, de, euh… Montreal?… ben, des graines que tu nous as donné!?”

I had lived in Montreal for 28 ½ years and I had never tasted the infamous Montreal melon. I didn’t even know what it looked like, smelled like, and tasted like. But I nodded my head, probably said something really wise, like “bien sure, tout à fait…” and we moved on to the potato patch to the left.

Early October, I returned to that garden. In the pouring rain, I filled baskets with tomatoes, green peppers, leeks, red cabbage, enormous zucchini, parsley, and the only Montreal melon left in the patch. The pumpkin was too heavy for me to carry, but it was acquired during the same garden raid. As we left the garden, Gilbert advised us that there were quite a few melons in the patch at the end of August, but they were prized by everyone and disappeared quickly.

Once at home, the melon was scrutinized. It looked just like a small honeydew and smelled like it too.  Once opened, it seemed no different – perhaps it had a touch more spice in terms of aroma. A slice and a bite confirmed the previous interpretation of the gustatory profile of the melon, honeydew with chutzpah. But there was another flavour to that melon. Something slightly bitter, with a final hint of sugar. It was...nostalgia.

There is a reason why we call them roots. I have roots in Montreal, it’s where I grew up, and it’s where I defined myself. And just like the pumpkins I knew there and the ones I discovered here, even if it’s the same seed, it doesn’t have the same outcome in another land. The hardest part of changing soils is adapting without comparing. The final product, in my case, is regularly sweeter or more delicious than what I had previously known. But that realization is always prefaced with a reconditioning as well as an acceptance that everything is different. Different customs, different expectations, different friendships, different time constraints, different differences! And every once in a while, I get tired of dealing with different, and often being different.

The Montreal melon was a brief return to something I left behind, and a representation of a place I will always yearn for because that’s where my roots took place. And transposed as I am, even though I flower more than ever and my leaves are a brighter green, I am keenly aware of where I sprouted.  My accent may fade and my customs may morph, but my essence will always be Montrealaise. And I only hope that like those melons in Gilbert’s patch, I can introduce those in my new lieu of residence to new flavours and aromas.