It’s mango season again. Have you tasted a perfectly ripe mango? There might not be a more delicious thing in the world.
The first mango I ate was the first time that Dave and I went to Mexico. We went to Cabo San Lucas, in June. It was hot. Very hot. We spent a day or so on the popular, touristy beach and got our fill of margarita soaked, sun-burned, belligerently-English-speaking tourists and decided to rent a car and go to a smaller beach. The only car we could rent was a stick shift, so I got to drive. The road was winding, hugging the coast, and providing lots of blind turns. We didn’t really know where we were going but passed several small coves with beaches in them. Finally we settled on a small, white-sanded beach and for a few hours we were the only ones there.
Then, out of nowhere, like a mirage, or a miracle, a fully-dressed man came walking down the beach. We saw him from a long way off and watched as he walked toward us. What could he have? He was carrying a cooler. He stopped and offered us cold mangoes on a stick. For 20 pesos. We looked at each other–mangoes? Do you like mangoes? Are you hungry? Well, I could go for a little snack…it’s safe to eat this, right? That seems a little steep but, let’s do it.
The mangoes were bright orange and cut so that they bloomed, like a flower. They were cold and juicy and the absolute perfect snack to have while sitting on a hot beach in Mexico. If I could go back in time and hug that man, I would. He introduced me to happiness.
Yes, I’m talking in superlatives here. It’s true. And usually superlatives are the sign of lazy thinking or dishonesty. But in this case, I cannot say it any other way. A perfect mango is perfect.
I used my love of mangoes as the basis for an essay many years later. My first “Spanish Lesson.” It’s called La Temporada.
And since then, this little essay has been rejected by three different publications. So I thought I might as well give it a home here. It takes me back to a very sweet temporada indeed.
It turns out I love ataulfo mangoes. They are small enough to comfortably fit into my hand and have a bit of a hooknose. They are the color of a late afternoon sun and when they are at the peak of ripeness they ooze a little from the stem. They are heavy, full, with skin stretched tight. And inside the flesh is smooth and slippery and sweet. A big parrot mango, so called for its red and green skin, the most common kind around here, can be stringy, watery, and a bit sour, even at its peak ripeness. Not so with ataulfos. They are the perfect blend of texture and taste, sweet without being overly saccharine tasting. All this would make them treasure enough but ataulfos are also rare. They have a temporada within the temporada.
So we overdose on them. We have them at breakfast with corn flakes, mid-morning with yogurt. Then Michelle will make a mango salad with rice and beans and cilantro and vinegar for lunch. They are stir-fried into dinner and for dessert—a marvelously unadorned mango. Any time I think, really that’s enough, I remember they’ll be gone before the rainy season begins and I stuff in one more.
Consequently when the temporada is over, we have made ourselves sick of mango. I think if I ever eat another mango again I’ll throw up. And slowly, slowly the months will pass and I’ll find myself asking my fruit guy again, “Por favor, donde estan los mangos?” It’s a roller coaster of longing and loathing.
Call Me Mandy 