Watermelon Juice Recipe

Spring is coming. I can feel it the way you feel a question before someone asks it — a change in the air, a shift in the light, a loosening in the earth that says the waiting is almost over. February in Savannah is the last month of the pause, the last month before the azaleas explode and the garden demands attention and the cooking shifts from winter stews to spring salads (not that I eat salads — I eat spring greens from the garden, which is different from salad because salad is cold and pointless and spring greens are warm and meaningful).

I started planning the spring garden. The seed order is in — Cherokee Purple tomatoes (seed saved from last year's best plant), Sapelo peppers (seventh generation now, Lord willing), okra, butter beans, herbs (basil, thyme, rosemary, sage), and this year, something new: watermelon. I am trying watermelon again. I know. I know I said I was done with watermelon. I know I have failed every year. But a woman named Mrs. Lucille at church told me the secret: plant them in the sunniest spot, give them room, and talk to them. "Talk to them about what?" I asked. "About whatever you'd talk to a child about," she said. "Watermelons are like children. They grow better when someone is paying attention." I will try this. I will talk to the watermelon. If the watermelon doesn't listen, I will not be surprised, because I have sixty-eight years of experience talking to things that don't listen, starting with my own knees.

Kayla came for dinner Wednesday. She was quiet — the kind of quiet that means something is happening inside that hasn't found words yet. We ate. I didn't push. You don't push a Henderson woman when she's quiet — you feed her and you wait and the words come when they're ready, like the tomatoes come when they're ready, like the babies come when they're ready, like everything that matters comes when it's ready and not a moment before.

After dinner, washing dishes, she said it: "Granny, I think I'm pregnant." Think. Not know. Think. The early stage, the maybe stage, the stage where the body is whispering but hasn't spoken clearly yet. I dried my hands. I looked at her. She looked at me. I said, "When will you know?" She said, "I have a doctor's appointment Friday." I said, "Okay." She said, "Okay?" I said, "Okay. And whatever the answer is, we eat. That's what we do. We eat."

Made chicken soup tonight. The healing soup. The waiting soup. The soup you make when you don't know what's coming but you know it's coming and the only thing you can do is nourish yourself while you wait.

Now go on and feed somebody.

I made the soup for the waiting — but I’m writing this recipe down for the hoping. The watermelon is still a seed in a paper envelope on my kitchen shelf, and Kayla’s answer is still a maybe, and both of those things feel the same to me right now: small and possible and full of what they could become. Mrs. Lucille says to talk to the watermelon like it’s a child, and maybe that’s exactly right, because this year I have a particular child on my mind. So here is the watermelon recipe — not for today, but for July, when the garden has answered, and whatever news we’ve been given, we celebrate it with something cold and red and sweet.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

8 cups seedless watermelon, cubed (about half a small watermelon)
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice (about 1 lime)
1 tablespoon honey or agave, optional, to taste
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/2 cup cold water, optional, to thin
Ice, for serving
Fresh mint, for garnish, optional

Instructions

Cube the watermelon. Cut the watermelon into rough chunks, removing any seeds or rind. You should have about 8 cups of fruit.
Blend. Add the watermelon cubes to a blender in batches if needed. Blend on high until completely smooth, about 30 to 60 seconds.
Strain. Pour the blended watermelon through a fine-mesh strainer into a large pitcher, pressing gently with a spoon to extract all the juice. Discard the pulp or save it for smoothies.
Season and adjust. Stir in the lime juice and salt. Taste, and add honey or agave if your watermelon needs a little help. If the juice feels thick, stir in cold water a few tablespoons at a time until it’s the consistency you like.
Chill and serve. Pour over ice in tall glasses. Garnish with a sprig of fresh mint if you have it from the garden. Drink it in the sun if at all possible.

Nutrition (per serving)

Watermelon Juice Recipe — The Hope You Plant Before You Know