Public confession: I adore mangos. I am obsessed with mangos. I live for mango season.
Maybe because right now I'm going through a quasi-hedonistic phase, I feel extremely aware of the fact that my mango loving has reached new extremes.
Case in point: just yesterday, I was out by my pool with my man, my best friend, and her man. One of them innocently pointed out that the neighbor behind us has a mango tree, and that some mangos were hanging over to our side, and that we should see if any were salvageable. That is what any normal, reasonable person would say. I, on the other hand, did not think that was a good enough suggestion, and I tried instead to convince these lovely people that what we really needed to do was find a picker and just pull the mangos off the tree; to this tree, and to one down the street.
Stealing mangos. That's what I'm reduced to this time of year. And not just stealing them, but feeling completely justified in doing so, as if it was my God-given right. I feel no shame in this: I will steal them, ask strangers for them, threaten innocents for them -- whatever it takes to supply myself with a bounty of my most favorite fruit.
As a child I would visit the home of a family friend, a home ladden with mango trees. I remember the way the yard smelled, the sweetness. My nana would take my shirt off and hand me a bowl of the cut fruit, and she would let me eat as much as I wanted, until my stomach ached. As I would bite into each piece, the juice would dribble down my chin, onto my chest, creating a wonderfully sticky mess. To this day, I can't properly enjoy a mango unless I take my shirt off and dive right into the bowl.
There is an inexplicable comfort in this fruit for me. Savoring one instantly lifts my mood and acts as a balm on my soul. The season will fly by me before I can even register that it's here.
Thank God for the freezer.
