Since the early days of our budding romance, kavun, known in English as cantaloupe, honeydew or muskmelon, has held a quietly sweet place in our relationship. I still remember that first summer when Salih and I had just started dating, bonding over our mutual love of melon as we shared the classic meze of beyaz peynir and kavun (white cheese and melon) during one of our first rakı sofrası experiences together (more on that in a future piece).

Now, as soon as the air shifts and summer begins to show itself, we take it as our cue to hit the markets, scanning for those netted, speckled globes and picking up where the hunt left off from the previous year.

Salih and I become self-appointed produce detectives. We approach the market scanning for all the telltale signs of symmetry, speckling and that golden blush that hints at sweetness.

Selecting the perfect melon is guided by the senses. The most telling sign is its aroma, a ripe melon releases a sweet, fragrant scent that gathers around the stem. The stem itself should not appear too old or dry, but rather fresh, as if it parted from the vine willingly. The skin should show the beginnings of maturity, with no trace of bruising or softness. A good kavun feels unexpectedly heavy in the hands, its weight a promise of juiciness.

We lift the hopefuls one by one, turning them in our hands, sniffing the stem end like sommeliers sizing up a rare bottle. Then comes the thump, a gentle flick of the thumb in search of that hollow sound that supposedly signals ripeness. Whether it truly means anything is up for debate, but by now, it’s less about certainty and more about ritual.

If a melon passes our highly unscientific tests, it goes into the basket like a prized catch. As soon as we’re home, Salih slices it open, taking his time to judge just how much flesh to trim. He scoops out the seeds with care, making sure not to lose too much of the sweet, jam-like core, the part of the kavun that tastes like the height of summer. He then fills a big bowl with the kavun pieces, which goes straight into the fridge. Then we wait, because melon, in our opinion, should be eaten fridge-cold.

Usually by the next evening, we stage the moment with care. A block of salty white cheese, ideally Ezine or İzmir tulum if we can find it, gets sliced and plated - any sharp, dry cheese will do. The chilled bowl of melon comes out. Two forks go in. We sit down like judges at a tasting panel.

The first bite carries weight. We’re both assessing, silently, carefully. Is it cold enough? Sweet enough? Does it have that almost-overripe, honeyed texture that dissolves on the tongue? If so, we exchange a quiet nod of approval. But more often than not, the promise falters. One bite hits all the right notes, the next falls flat. And just like that, the search begins again.

Because finding the perfect melon isn’t a one-time triumph, it’s an on-going seasonal pursuit. I genuinely feel for those who don’t enjoy melon. Of all the fruits, it captures the essence of summer best: sweet, fleeting and full of warmth. When we lived in Türkiye, I had some of the best kavun of my life. Grown in fields beside my father-in-law’s orchards, these melons consistently topped our personal rankings. And honestly, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Turkish people have a real thing for melon.

In Türkiye, kavun flourishes in sun-soaked regions like Antalya, Adana, Manisa and İzmir, where the climate and soil create ideal growing conditions. Turkish farmers put flavor first, a dedication that has earned their melons a growing reputation abroad, with exports stretching across Europe, the Middle East and North America. In Türkiye, kavun is more than just a fruit; it’s part of the ritual of summer evenings, most often paired with rakı, the country’s beloved star-anise-scented spirit and served alongside salty, white cheese.

A Costco Melon

A couple of weeks ago, we stumbled upon a surprisingly perfect-looking melon at our local Florida Costco. We were stunned. So much so that Salih went back a few days later and picked up three more. Each one delivered bites that came remarkably close to perfection. They had to be from Türkiye... haha.

But just yesterday we returned, hopeful, only to find the supply had vanished. They had kavun, yes, but with one glance we could tell they weren’t the same. And so, the search begins again.

Not Quite a Recipe

This is less of a recipe and more of a gentle suggestion. Once you’ve found your kavun, peel the skin and cut it into bite-sized pieces. Place the melon in a large bowl with a lid, unless you want your whole fridge to carry its scent, and let it chill for at least eight hours. When the time feels right, slice and plate the cheese. For a bright, slightly tart kick, sprinkle a bit of sumac over the melon or the cheese or both. Then grab as many forks as there are people, dig in and enjoy. It’s summer on a plate.

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Publication: April 2025, Issue #16