https://www.austinchronicle.com/food/2001-07-13/82324/
Back at the little white frame house that Chief (our dad) built for us in '47, the giant ice cube was placed in a galvanized wash tub, and Chief chipped it up with an ice pick. Being a protective dad, only he was allowed to chip the ice, as the pick was a dangerous tool and we might bumble somehow. Once the ice was prepared, the watermelon was set to rest and chill, covered with frozen slivers, and topped with the burlap, while the not really essential balance of the Fourth of July meal was prepared. Under the shade of the roof-high banana-less banana tree, huge because of the almost constant flow of water from the washing machine in the nearby tool room, the ultimate treat waited quietly, growing icy cold by the hour. It was all we could do to resist it, as we filched ice chips to assuage our desire and nurture our imagination.
Finally, after we consumed the requisite hamburgers, grilled outside, and topped with slices of cellophane-wrapped tomatoes (four to the box), and iceberg lettuce, onions and pickles, mayonnaise and mustard (no ketchup), washed down with pop and, yes, beer for the adults, the giant melon was placed on a bench and sacrificed to our impatience. The first insertion of the knife wrenched from the melon an explosive crack, as it opened to reveal its cold, red sweetness. Each slice held the prime portion, the heart of the melon, and it was savored first and remembered long afterward -- much like the tip of a piece of pie. The juice ran down our arms and chins, the seeds were flicked to the ground, and otherwise tolerated for the sake of the cold, watery redness. Ahhh, it was great; I can taste it now. Black Diamond -- the watermelon of the 1950s. Perfect on a hot San Antonio Fourth of July, or any day in July, in any year.
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