I didn't know to anticipate the pleasure of a mango just off the limb. Alone in a house in South Florida during mango season, the sound of a ripe one dropping to the ground calls me outside. It's a tantalizing rustle and thud. Have you any idea how satisfying it is to slice a soft mango, still warm from the sun, and sink your teeth into its fibrous flesh to suck out the juice? Talk of flavor. Like no mango from a grocer, that's for sure.
There are three mango trees in daughter Sarah's backyard. Seven-year-old granddaughter Makayla may turn into a mango. She eats them like apples from the ground or from a bowl, or freshly sliced and refrigerated for an after school snack. Young Nick, however, will have nothing to do with a mango. It's the wrong texture and color and food group for him. He's more likely to turn into a chicken with rice :-). dkm
 |
(Still remembering writing retreat at house of Sarah, daughter #2 . . . where I finished through chapter 24 while her family was at work and school . . . hooray . . . now catching up on notes taken for blog posts while there.)
