The Mango Tango

(Or, the mango salsa, if preferred.)

Peeling a mango over the sink yesterday morning, which is just about the only way to wrestle with that tropical fruit. I called on my tips and tricks for separating the skin and then getting to the fruit itself and separating it from the pit. (And don't we all pray to be separated from the Pit?)

The mango was perfectly ripe and a joy to eat. It reminded me, as mangoes always do, of my childhood. Our family lived in South Florida until the late 1970s. It is, of course, tropical. It was there that I came into the knowledge of the varieties of palm trees; to enjoy the lush extravagance of hibiscus; to count lizards and frogs as fun adventure. 

Our yard included not only hibiscus but also an olive tree (sadly, infertile), a cherry tree (yum), and a grapefruit tree. A gift from family friends, it did poorly until my parents moved it so that it was in another part of the back yard, near the green utility box, where it thrived. (Go figure.) I grew up thinking that everyone just plucked grapefruits and brought them into the kitchen for Mom to slice and section for breakfast. Our backyard neighbor had a Key lime tree. 

And family friends had a mango tree. Their daughter, who was a year or two older than I was, took an Italian ancestral name for her surname and went into ballet, her passion. I still have the leather bookmark that was a gift from the family's vacation to Italy. 

One evening, our family was visiting their home, mango tree and all. I developed a headache and nausea. Might have been coming down with something; maybe it was just really warm that evening. I was eight or so and don't remember the details. I do remember deciding that it must have been an allergy to mango. 

The association was so strong that for decades, I passed on mango, citing an allergy. One morning a couple of years ago, in a rush but still wanting to make healthy choices, I picked up a cup of mixed fruit from a coffee shop. Unidentified orange chunks were ... not pineapple ... aha. Mango. The piney fibrous flavor was a treat.

At the time, I shared an office with a woman whose husband was from Mexico. She had plenty of knowledge and advice about mangoes. They've been part of my diet ever since.

The world, dear ones, is as small as you and I choose to make it. As Carl Sagan writes at the close of his novel Contact, "For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love."*


Enjoy the mangoes, in season, at the peak of ripeness. Enjoy the adventure of getting to the sweet fibrous treasure within.