I’m feeling too tired to come up with something interesting today, so instead I’m re-posting one of my earliest blog entries, which was read originally by perhaps three or four people.
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Mmmmm… Mango
I’ve been on a fruit kick lately. Apples, pears, bananas, grapefruit, cherries. It’s been surprising, since I haven’t really been interested in fruit before. I used to buy a pear now and then, with the vague notion that I should eat healthier, but anything else bought on a whim would sit uneaten in my fruit drawer, lonely and forgotten, turning into the brown sludge designed to nourish the seeds within if they happened on fertile soil. My refrigerator, however, is not an optimal place for plant growth; after one or two unpleasant surprises I learned my lesson – no buying fruit that I know I won’t eat.
Until recently that was my relationship with fruit. As I noted earler, however, things have changed.
So last weekend, I was at the grocery store and noticed mangos on sale. I wanted to try something new, and I hadn’t eaten whole, fresh mango since I went on a trip to Puerto Rico more than a decade ago. It was bought at a fruit stand, and when we (several people wanted a taste) tried to eat it, we discovered that it is best to have a sharp knife handy. We roughly peeled the skin, grubby fingers quickly becoming slimed and sticky. As we were camping, we had stubby camp silverware handy, and each tried vainly to scoop out a bit with a spoon. The fibrous pulp was resistant to our advances, turning into a sticky, juicy mush that was extremely messy to eat. It was tasty, I vaguely recall – I didn’t get much more than a mouthful. Since then, though I generally enjoy mango pre-sliced, the thought of handling the frut conjured up sloppy memories.
Back again to this weekend. The refrigerated packs of fresh mango I’ve bought in the past were good, if a bit bland, and didn’t seem to be too fibrous to eat so I thought buying a whole one and trying to slice it myself might be worthwhile. The mangos were fairly big, so I decided to have one for lunch on Sunday. Remembering Puerto Rico, I grabbed a sharp knife and sliced into the skin. It slipped into the ripe fruit as though sliding into butter, but met with a strange resistance – an oddly shaped, and as it turned out rather large seed inside. I managed to manuever around it and get a good slice. Getting the skin off the meat was simple enough, and finally I could get a taste. I opened my mouth and took a big, sloppy bite.
The world stopped, and somewhere angels must have been singing..
I closed my eyes, the better to focus on the intricate palette of flavors and textures seducing my mouth. Sun warmed, the pulp gave up its flavor in langorous stages, melting in my mouth with only the slightest sandpapery hint of fibrousness. It began with a mellow smoothness, reminiscent of melon. Moving my tongue and chewing slightly brought forth a a ray of sweetness, bearing a familiar resemblance to mango-flavored beverages (the way a painting by any of the Old Masters resembles third-rate hotel room art). It finally ended with a mingling of the two, mellow and sweet intermingling in a sensual juiciness that slid down my throat and left me lusting for more. I devoured the rest standing there at the counter, leaving only the skin and the rough fibrous bits clinging to the seed. Juice coated my fingers and cheeks, wafting a subtle, sweet aroma. I stared at the scraps of yellow, green and orange skin pooled on the juice-soaked paper towel as though awakening from a trance, feeling sated and surprised.
If ever there were a food of the gods, I think this might be it.
Of course, I may only be saying that because it is so rare these days to find fruit at the grocery store that is actually ripe.
(August 3, ‘06)
