Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Mangoes: Fruit of the Gods

The mango case sat at the top of the stairs, yellow bumps flashing. I picked up one and felt the weight of a baseball. Bringing it to my upper lip, I closed my eyes, inhaled slowly and postcards of Indian beaches shuttered in my mind.

I walked to the kitchen. I got a cutting board and a cleaver. I peeled the skin. The juices smeared my fingertips and the fragrance filled my nostrils. I carefully let the peel fold into one curled strand.

The mango sat in my palm, shining like sunset light streaming through stained glass. Enclosing my fingers around its slippery body, I cut grid marks. The blade easily slid through to the seed. As I sliced against the inner stone, pieces fell on to the wood with a small plop.

I didn’t bother with a plate—or a fork. Taking a small wedge between my fingers, I dropped it on to my tongue. My teeth effortlessly pierced the golden cushion. My taste buds cheered as supple sweetness burst in my mouth. Everything went in slow motion. But after that first morsel, the view sped up like a time-capture video of clouds in the sky—except instead of white pillows moving across blue air, a hand darted in and out to steal the exotic ambrosia till it all disappeared.

After all, I did feel godlike by the end.

1 comment:

annette kara wong said...

If there was a "Love" button on this, I would've clicked it by now. You're an amazing writer Heather, keep up the good work! I'll have to pull myself away from your blog before I consume all things existing in my kitchen.