First: the hate.
I see them on sale at the grocery store, with a sticker that says "RIPE". I narrow my eyes at the sticker. Really, I think? But in the end, I believe it, just like I do the guy who says, "Baby, you are very special to me."
I go home with high hopes, only to have them dashed the next day in the kitchen. The mango is not ripe, smells and tastes pine-y, and has a fibrous pit that takes up most of the fruit. Despite the sweet juice running over my fingers as I slice little pieces off, it's basically unsatisfying.
This has happened numerous times. Why? Because I remember the love. I want to experience the love again.
Second: the love.
I'd taken the Tequila Trolley across the border to Juarez, before the heavy start of the war zone it is today, but just enough of a rough spot to make it a bit exciting. Of course, I and my companion bailed the trolley and ended up walking most of the way to the market. I was young and silly, but really, what was I thinking, thinking how odd it was to pass a hospital where everyone bandaged was leaning and standing on crutches outside, smoking?
But, flippantly naive, we made our way safely to the market.
It was midday and we walked into the non-air conditioned hangar. The scent of overripe mangoes soon overtook me, and my eyes filled with the sights of counters for a fast meal, piles of fruit, cold soda of indiscriminate variety, and plenty of crafts. Mangoes were forever associated with my first foreign market.
A few years later, I tasted a mango as it should be, ripe from a tree from a neighbor's yard in Florida. It was hot and honey and sweet and all the things I wanted it to be in the exotic way that none of my cut-and-dried Carolina fruit had ever been.
I was hooked.
Finally: unrequited love resolved.
But since then, it's been back to the hate, back to the empty promises of the "RIPE" label in the produce section, so much so that I resolved to stop on-and-off dating such a player. I mean, really? Is it worth it?
Last night, I finally got what I was asking for, and it was because I refused to listen to the label. Yes, the mangoes were labeled "reduced for quick sale." But they smelled ripe and looked ripe, and I trusted my instincts instead of some story that the store was trying to tell me.
I picked some winners, bringing home four that sliced like butter and were honey and rich and orange and sweet, none of the bite and all of the kiss. Aaah. I added a little honey, a sprinkle of cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger, and they were the dessert of late summer dreams, hurricane humidity in the air and the feeling of the end of long lazy days drowsy with heat.
