When I went on a home stay outside of Cadiz the summer after my junior year of high school, my host sister Sandra use to cut me up a piece of a delicious melon every morning for breakfast.
On the outside it looked like a watermelon—green with rough skin. Still, it was significantly less cumbersome and large than a watermelon, and, more notably, inside it was a sort of creamy white/green more reminiscent of honey dew than the familiar pink fruit of my American bbq glory days. The taste was magical—hugely sweet, soft, creamy, and super moist. In short, a dream fruit.
Whenever I asked Sandra, "Cómo se llama este melón??" (in pathetic hope of finally getting a concrete answer), she would simply respond, "Melón." Further prodding her and/or various family members and townspeople for more details yielded similarly vague results. So, for the rest of the trip and many months afterwards I lived in wonder of this mysterious, magical Andalusian melon.
When I got home to the states that summer, I scoured the internet in search of this melon. Surely some fancy schmancy West Bloomfield organic novelty market would have the melon, if only I knew what its name was....
Alas, I couldn't find anything via googling "delicious white and green Spanish melon." I couldn't find it on wikipedia via searching "melon in Andalusia." Any Spanish-speakers I would ask would look at me as if I was crazy, i.e. "Bitch, please, I am Cuban, how the hell am I supposed to know what to call a melon from Southern Spain?" (What can I say, I was desperate.) So I gave up for a while, and dreamed of this tasty melon.
Of course, the mystery was eventually and unexpectedly solved one summer as I idly perused the fruit guide in a suburban
Nino Salvaggio. Inside the guide, right next to the equally enigmatic membrillo (#1 ingredient of delicious afternoon snack carne de membrillo. And disappointingly evidently in english = quince. ) I saw: "SPANISH MELON."
Spanish melon: holy crap, Occam's Razor! Who knew the simplest and most obvious solution would actually prevail???? Though admittedly at first I felt duped and betrayed at the title's simplicity: how many months had I searched in vain??? Yet ultimately I was relieved. I mean, for one thing, it explained Sandra's inability to elaborate. (Belgians don't call them Belgian waffles, amirite?)
Of course, even with the actual name of the melon in hand, it was elusive. In fact, the Spanish melon was actually impossible to find anywhere I perused in the 4 years since I left Spain, including markets in Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, New York, Maryland, and Massachusetts. No justice!
So, of course, upon my return to Spain last week I was on a mission: glorious and delicious reunion with the best melon in the world.
And, FINALLY, here I am at El Corte Ingles with my fabulous find!!! (and also some not-shitty olive oil and bread)
The happiest Liza of all!!!!!
As fate would have it, the employee at El Corte who picked it out for me told me not to eat it for 2 days, so I had to wait a bit before I could crack in.
And then, finally, as a reward for finishing my reading this evening, I cut it open and literally ate half of it. And can I just say: NOM NOM NOM
NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
Eating this melon, with delicious juice running down my face (not my fault, this thing is packed with nectar), I actually felt like a mix between James in his giant ass peach and Abu in Aladdin as they dug into their delectable and elusive fruits of choice: such a search for you, dear melon, yet damn! you are so messy, so sticky, so very very glorious.
Of course, only after purchasing it and reading the label do I find that it is also called
Piel de Sapo (Toad skin. What a flattering name, Spanish culture.) and is widely distributed in Latin America as well as Spain. Who would have guessed??
Whatever, toad skin aside, it was worth the wait.
