I eat the best mango I have ever tasted. It wasn’t much to look at when it was still whole. It never got that lovely red blush. There was a small patch of yellow on the skin. I even put it in the refrigerator because I’d bought too much fruit. I didn’t want it to spoil. When I peel it, inside it is a rich orange, the flesh wet and firm. I cut it up in big, messy chunks, the mango slipping out of my hands. I gnaw on the big white pit. (I always want to save the pits, make art with them, but I resist.) I eat it in the courtyard with a small pile of Brazil nuts. I eat with my fingers, savor each bite. The cicadas—two of them, I think—begin buzzing in the Palo Verde when I am chewing the last piece. I don’t know how long I sit there, mesmerized by the lingering taste of sweet, delicious mango and the exotic summer song of the cicadas, the bowl propped against my belly. I come to with my hand still poised over the empty bowl, my fingers slick with mango juice.
For Mangoes, India is he place. do read my blogs to see India through my eyes: http://www.travelwithmukul.wordpress.com and http://www.enchantedforests.wordpress.com.
Thanks for stopping by, Mukul. Your photography is beautiful. I especially enjoyed just now the gorgeous “mud cottages”—all that wonderful texture, color, simple elegance!—and the painted flat-bottomed boats! :)
As far as mangoes go, yes—I have a blogging friend who lives in India, and I love seeing photos of her mango tree. It seems like the climate there is similar to parts of Mexico. Right now, I have a little mango tree growing in a pot here in the desert with my fingers crossed!