When
we were building our
house, the workmen from St. Lucia sometimes threw seeds from their lunchtime
melons onto the bare slope in front. We had put in some plants to stabilize the
soil, but they were still small and the space was looking pretty raw. Since all
sorts of stray plants can sprout up on a clear spot of land, no matter how
steep, we didn’t even realize what sort of vine was crawling up and down the
hillside until we noticed a nest of tiny cantaloupes right in front of the
house.
Even though my sons now tower over me, it still seems like a
miracle to me to see how much exuberant growth can come from just a few tiny
well-placed seeds. My husband and I felt like proud parents when the first
furry little melon balls appeared on the vines, but were as innocent as babies
ourselves when it came to understanding how the miracle of conception had
actually occurred.
I had learned a few things from my earlier research on
papaya reproduction, and wondered if cantaloupes enjoyed similarly complicated
sex lives. I discovered that unlike other vines (but like the notorious
hermaphroditic papayas) cantaloupes can produce some ‘perfect’ flowers that
have both male and female parts. But this proximity on the same plant does not
necessarily lead to propagation. They aren’t very successful in mating by
themselves, and generally need some help from the bees, which carry the pollen
from male flowers to the female ones.
Also like papayas, the sexuality of cantaloupes is affected
by climatic conditions – high temperatures can cause plants to become
homosexual, producing only male flowers, and therefore no baby melons.
Fortunately our brood had cool, wet weather and the ornamental flowers we planted
had drawn plenty of helpful bees into the neighborhood.
Though I had never seen cantaloupes growing before, I
learned that they have a long and illustrious history. The name is French, but
comes from the Italian town of Cantalupo near Rome, a former summer estate for
the Popes where the melons were first grown in Europe. The melons probably
originally came from Persia. Certainly they were around in Biblical times,
because when Moses led his people out of Egypt into the desert, they reportedly
pined after the mouth-watering melons they had enjoyed during their years in
bondage.
What we call cantaloupes were probably introduced to the
‘New World’ by Columbus, planted in Haiti during his second voyage. They are
different from the smaller, harder ones currently found in Europe, and are
actually a type of ‘muskmelon’, though they smell sweet to me, not musky at
all. The ones grown commercially in the United States have been specially bred
for sweetness, and are known as ‘Netted Gems’, since they have raised veins on
their skins that make them look like they have been caught in a fishnet.
Just before Christmas, my husband couldn’t resist picking
one of the cantaloupes that looked big enough to eat. Despite its size, it
obviously wasn’t ripe yet because when we tasted it, it wasn’t sweet at all.
After that we learned that you are supposed to leave them on the vine until the
skin under the netting is completely sandy colored rather than green, and the
fruit easily comes loose from the stem.
Unlike some other fruits, cantaloupes will not ripen more or
become sweeter after they are picked, so they need to stay on the stem until
they reach their peak sugar content – about five percent sugar. When the melon
is ready, a buffer forms between the stem and the fruit, preventing more
nutrients from passing through, and the fruit disconnects easily.
Besides sugar and water, cantaloupes also contain lots of
vitamins, cancer-fighting anti-oxidants, and potassium, which lowers your blood
pressure. Still, the best part for us city-born folk is the simple gift of
eating something that grew in our own yard, knowing that its seeds have been
passed down through generations and traveled across continents, connecting us
with ancient ancestors and the miraculous fullness of life.
