The Mystery Fruit

I recently saw a picture of a produce stand advertising rubarb. The misspelling (there is an H in rhubarb, folks) took me back to the day I nearly made a fool out of myself at a Lancaster County produce stand.

In the summer after we returned from Africa 5 years ago, I was driving through the countryside and saw a sign at a small produce stand that read, "Lopes. Buy 2, get 2 free." And I, with my love of ethnic foods, thought, "Whatever it is must be imported and isn't a hot selling item." 

I didn't know what a 'lope' was. Perhaps it was Spanish in origin and the local Mennonite population wasn't familiar with how to use it. I imagined a medium-sized green fruit, similar to a papaya. Did you peel it, cook it, or eat it raw? And I was pretty sure the country of its origin didn't pronounce "lopes" in a single, clipped syllable. It was probably "LOH-pay." Or possibly "loh-PAY." There was even a slight chance that it was "loh-PEZ" but certainly not "lohp." 

If I wasn't so short on time, I would have stopped and inquired. I could imagine the gratitude from some poor farmer who was stuck with a bin of "LOH-pays" and was selling them off at bargain prices. (Maybe they were small, considering he was selling them "Buy 2, Get 2 Free," and I'd want a dozen. Maybe they'd make a great jelly and I'd relieve him of a full bushel.)

It must have been a week or more later when I discovered the truth. "Lopes" was only an abbreviated form of cantaloupe, that luscious summertime melon grown prolifically in our area. Only, who can spell that correctly without spell check, right? I've seen other signs advertising cantelope, cantaloup, or, my favorite, cantalop. Settling on 'lopes' was definitely an easy way to avoid having to second guess your choice of letters every time you drove in your drive and saw yourself advertising canterlops. 

Suddenly I stopped short. Imagine how awkward would it have been if I had walked up to the stand and said, "Excuse me. I saw you are advertising LOH-pays. Can you please tell me what they are?" 

Or, "I saw your sign advertising -how do you say it? Loh-PEZ?" I can already see the blank stares and me trying to redeem myself with a loosened tongue rambling, "I've recently returned from Africa and am interested in ethnic foods. Can you tell me where these. . .LOH-pay. . . come from?"

My mother reminds me occasionally not to look for zebras when you hear the sound of hooves. Most likely it is horses. In this situation, looking for the exotic on a Lancaster County farm was probably a far-fetched, zebra-like idea. 

But, hey, how I was supposed to know? I don't remember my science books talking about lopes.