My First True Mango
I ate the mango from Pakistan U’s mother gave me while packing up and preparing to leave London this morning.
She said, “Don’t stand on ceremony, just eat it.” So I took her advice and gave it a try.
Still in my pajamas, I took it into my hotel bathroom. I easily peeled back the skin with my fingers. Oozing juices, its musky fragrance began to fill the room as I started to consume it over the marble sink.
I bit off chunks of sweet flesh, the thin fibres sticking between my teeth and worked my way around the fruit, learning to avoid the less ripe, lighter colored sections, while devouring and sucking the seed to get the last bits of orange sweetness where it was best.
When I was done, I looked up and a wild-haired, wide-eyed, mango-mouthed girl gazed back at me from the mirror.
I had never eaten a mango like that before. I was a convert.
Now pass me the dental floss.
